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iOQX*  OE  CALIF.   LIBRAEY,   LOS  AXGMMB 

1  he  r  lower  of    Destiny 
Old  Days  of  the  Serail 


By 

Margaret  Mordecai 

Author  of  "A  Key  to  the  Orient* 


G.   P.   Putnam's    Sons 

New  York  and  London 

^be  f?nlcfterbocfter  press 

1910 


Copyright,  iqio 

BY 

MARGARET  MORDECAI 


Vbe  fmfckerboclier  ^cm,  Kew  ]^th 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Flower  of  Destiny    . 

3 

The  Last  op  the  Fatimites 

.       8i 

The  New  Moon  of  Islam  . 

•     159 

The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

.     217 

The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

.     287 

Appendix     . 

.     335 

iii 


2137378 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 


THE  FLOWER  OF  DESTINY 

IN  the  first  years  of  the  seventh 
century,  the  power  and  glory  of 
the  world  were  divided  between  the 
empires  of  Rome  and  Persia.  Their 
frontiers  met  in  a  long  line  till  they  were 
separated,  as  by  a  wedge,  by  the  barren 
land  of  Arabia,  which  neither  Emperor 
had  thought  it  worth  his  while  to  con- 
quer, but  in  which  already  burned  that 
spark  which  was  soon  to  set  the  world 
on  fire  and  to  consume  both  their 
empires. 

At  this  moment  the  Romans,  though 
unfortunate  in  war,  rejoiced  to  own 
the  sway  of  the  one  sovereign  of  the 
Eastern  line  who  was  both  great  and 
good,  Heraclius. 

In  Persia  the  time  was  most  fortunate, 
for  after  the  revolution  and  civil  war 
which  had  torn  the  Empire  asunder, 
3 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

in  the  time  of  his  father  Hormouz,  and 
after  he  had  himself  been  driven  into 
exile,  the  Persians  beheld,  seated  on  the 
throne  of  Sassan,  the  great  Chosroes, 
under  whom  Persia  and  the  Sassanid 
dynasty  attained  the  summit  of  their 
greatest  glory. 

On  a  morning  in  the  month  of  May 
of  the  year  619,  the  Shah  in  Shah, 
Chosroes,  the  great  King  of  Persia,  was 
holding  his  divan  in  his  favourite  resi- 
dence, the  wonderful  palace  of  Artemita. 
The  war  with  Rome  was  over.  Chos- 
roes had  been  restored  to  his  throne  by 
the  Emperor  Maurice,  whom  he  thence- 
forth called  his  father;  but  the  massacre 
by  the  monster  Phocas  of  that  good 
monarch  and  all  his  family  had  broken 
all  his  ties  with  the  Romans,  and  though 
Heraclius  had  come  as  the  avenger  of 
Maurice,  Chosroes  had  felt  no  hesitation 
in  attacking  and  tearing  from  him  his 
richest  and  fairest  provinces.  Victory 
had  everywhere  attended  the  Persian 
arms.  Within  two  years  the  maps  of 
the  two  empires  were  entirely  changed, 
4 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

and  Chosroes  had  taken  from  his  rival 
Egypt,  Asia  Minor,  Palestine,  Syria,  and 
even  Rhodes,  and  reconstructed  the 
Empire  of  Darius. 

Now  the  war  was  over  and  the  great 
King  was  taking  his  rest  and  enjoying 
the  fruits  of  his  victory,  amid  that 
incredible  luxury  and  splendour  which 
the  Oriental  writers  so  love  to  describe. 

On  this  special  morning,  the  great 
King  sat  as  usual  on  his  throne  in  the 
hall  of  the  divan.  This  hall  was  built 
entirely  of  white  marble  carved  like 
lace-work,  with  airy  columns  supporting 
the  roof  and  a  whole  appearance  of 
fairy-like  lightness.  At  one  end  on  a 
raised  dais  stood  the  throne,  which  was 
made  of  solid  gold  inlaid  with  jewels, 
and  on  either  side  of  the  dais  were 
fountains  with  broad  basins  into  which 
the  water  streamed  from  the  mouths 
of  marble  lions. 

Nobles  and  court  officials  in  silk  and 

gold  stood  around  and  just  below  the 

dais,  and  in  front  of  the  great  King  was 

a    group   which    contrasted    strangely 

5 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

in  their  simplicity  with  the  splendour 
around  them, — three  Arabs  in  robes 
of  brown  camel's  hair.  They  were  an 
embassy  from  a  private  citizen  of  Mecca 
who  called  himself  a  prophet,  and  had 
gathered  around  him  a  certain  following, 
— Mohammed,  of  the  family  of  El 
Hashim,  of  the  tribe  of  the  Koresh. 
This  person  had  written  a  letter  to  the 
King  of  Persia  (or  rather  it  had  been 
written  for  him,  since  he  could  not 
write),  in  which  he  summoned  him  to 
acknowledge  him  as  the  Prophet  of 
God,  and  to  embrace  the  religion  which 
he  had  been  sent  to  reveal.  The  letter 
was  written  in  Persian,  and  Chosroes 
had  read  it  himself,  and  still  held  it 
in  his  hand  while  he  looked  at  the 
Ambassadors  with  a  contemptuous 
curiosity. 

"I  had  heard  of  your  master,"  he 
said,  "as  one  who  had  made  some  little 
stir  in  his  own  insignificant  country, 
but  his  insolence  in  sending  such  a 
message  to  the  King  of  Persia  is 
incredible." 

6 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

"  O  King, "  replied  the  foremost  of 
the  ambassadors,  "disdain  not  the 
message  we  bring  you.  It  is  the  truth, 
and  will  prevail  with  or  without  the 
aid  of  earthly  kings.  There  is  no  God 
but  Allah,  and  Mohammed  is  His 
Prophet!" 

The  face  of  Chosroes  flushed  with  a 
sudden  anger  at  the  Arab's  boldness. 

"In  Persia,"  he  said,  "we  know  but 
one  God,  Ahuromazda;  one  prophet, 
Zarathustra — Spitama!  Go  back  to 
your  master,  the  camel  driver  of  Mecca, 
and  tell  him  that  you  have  delivered 
his  letter,  and  that  this  is  the  answer 
of  Chosroes." 

And  with  one  turn  of  his  strong  hand 
he  tore  the  parchment  in  two,  and  threw 
it  into  the  fountain  on  his  right,  where 
it  floated  for  an  instant,  and  then 
disappeared. 

In  the  harem   of   the   royal    palace 

were  collected  the  most  beautiful  women 

who  could  be  bought  for  money  in  the 

markets  of  the  world:  not  Persian  only, 

7 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

though  they  had  held  the  palm  of 
beauty,  but  Syrians,  Egyptians,  Greeks, 
maids  from  the  wilds  of  Turkestan, 
dark  Indian  maids,  and  maids  yellow, 
but  beautiful,  from  the  Celestial  Em- 
pire. And  still  other  maids  from  far 
and  unknown  countries  who  themselves 
knew  not  whence  they  came.  And  all 
these  bloomed  together  in  the  harem 
of  the  Shah  in  Shah;  a  bouquet  culled 
for  his  delight,  of  the  fairest  flowers 
from  the  gardens  of  the  world. 

But  Chosroes  noted  them  but  little; 
fine  clothes  and  jewels  were  given  them, 
indeed.  They  lived  sumptuously,  had 
other  slaves  to  wait  on  them,  who 
were  but  slaves  themselves,  and  whiled 
away  their  time  in  the  palace  and  its 
gardens. 

Chosroes  the  great  King  of  Persia,  the 
glory  of  the  house  of  Sassan,  thought 
of  but  one,  and  loved  but  one,  beside 
whom,  indeed,  all  others  paled  like 
stars  beside  the  sun — Sira,  a  Christian 
slave,  from  the  banks  of  the  Danube 
or  the  Rhine.  She  knew  not  indeed 
8 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

her  own  origin,  but  remembered  only 
the  mountains,  the  forests,  and  the  river, 
and  the  long  journey  to  Constantinople, 
where  she  had  been  reared  like  many 
another  for  the  slave  market.  Thence 
in  the  first  budding  of  her  beauty  she 
had  been  once  more  transplanted  to 
Persia,  and  sold  to  the  procurer  of  the 
royal  harem. 

Her  history,  until  Chosroes  set  eyes 
on  her,  had  been  the  ordinary  history 
of  a  slave.  But  from  the  day  on  which 
Chosroes  had  seen  her  first,  the  sig- 
nificant part  of  her  life  began.  From 
that  moment  she,  and  she  only,  swayed 
the  heart  of  her  royal  lover.  Then 
Chosroes  had  been  the  Prince,  the  heir 
of  Persia;  now  he  was  the  King.  Sira 
had  followed  him  in  his  flight  and  had 
shared  his  exile;  now  she  shared  his 
glory.  Siroes,  the  one  child  whom  she 
had  borne  him,  was  looked  upon  as  the 
heir  apparent  of  the  throne  of  Sassan, 
and  Sira,  though  no  princess  but  a 
slave,  was  the  real  Queen  of  Persia. 

Nor  was  it  to  her  beauty  alone  that 
9 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

Sira  owed  her  empire,  but  to  her  in- 
telligence and  her  fresh  and  brilliant 
wit.  Hour  after  hour  she  could  enter- 
tain and  amuse  the  great  King,  and 
though  she  had  been  with  him  now 
for  years,  Chosroes  never  tired  of  her, 
but  left  her  every  morning  with  regret, 
to  return  to  her  every  evening  with 
delight.  Oh,  if  women  only  knew  the 
real  secret  of  their  power!  Youth  and 
beauty  fade,  tears  and  scenes  repel; 
but  a  man  never  tires  of  the  woman 
who  can  make  him  laugh. 

While  Chosroes  was  holding  his  divan, 
Sira  sat  in  the  innermost  of  her  apart- 
ments alone.  This  room  had  a  vaulted 
ceiling  and  one  large  window,  divided 
by  columns  into  three.  It  was  deco- 
rated in  that  style  which  had  obtained 
in  Persia  since  the  earliest  times.  The 
walls  and  ceiling  were  painted  green 
relieved  by  red  and  gold,  and  inlaid 
with  bits  of  mirror  of  irregular  shape. 
The  floor  and  the  columns  which  di- 
vided and  flanked  the  window  were  of 
shining  pale  green  marble,  and  the 
lo 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

curtains,  portieres,  and  cushions  of  the 
divan  were  of  green  and  silver. 

A  silver  brazier,  in  which  perfumes 
burned,  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
and  in  the  comers  were  great  vases  of 
Chinese  porcelain  filled  with  flowers. 
Five  silver  lamps  of  rare  workmanship 
hung  from  the  ceiling  by  long  chains, 
and  a  priceless  green  Bokhara  rug 
was  spread  in  front  of  the  long  low 
divan  on  which  sat  Sira. 

The  favourite  of  Chosroes  was  now 
in  the  full  bloom  of  her  beauty,  with 
all  the  rounded  softness  and  voluptu- 
ousness of  perfect  womanhood.  Hers 
was  a  type  rare  and  almost  unknown 
in  the  Orient,  a  Celtic  blonde.  There 
were  those,  indeed,  who  said  that  Sira 
was  no  woman  but  a  water  spirit.  She 
was  pale  with  an  ivory  whiteness  and 
her  hair,  which  fell  in  silken  ringlets 
almost  to  the  ground,  was  a  wonder- 
ful green-gold.  Her  lips  were  like 
coral,  and  her  teeth  like  pearls,  and 
more  than  all  her  eyes,  fringed  with 
dark  lashes  like  a  lake  with  reeds, 
II 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

were  green,  green  as  the  purest 
jade. 

The  favourite  wore  a  robe  of  crim- 
son flowered  with  gold,  opened  at  the 
bosom,  and  caught  with  a  jewelled 
girdle  around  her  waist.  Her  arms 
were  bare  and  clasped  with  jewelled 
bracelets,  and  strings  of  pearls  were 
twisted  in  her  hair. 

Sira  looked  ever  and  anon  with  a 
growing  impatience  towards  the  en- 
trance, and  presently  the  portiere  was 
lifted,  and  another  woman  entered. 
She  was  a  young  woman,  slender  and 
dark  and  graceful,  an  unmistakable 
Egyptian,  dressed  in  an  Egyptian  robe 
of  dark  blue  silk  threaded  with  silver, 
a  soft  clinging  robe  which  followed  all 
the  graces  of  her  figure,  and  left  bare 
the  pale  olive  of  her  bosom  and  arms. 
Her  long  black  hair  fell  behind  her 
straight  and  heavy,  and  a  gold  circlet 
set  with  sapphires  crowned  her  head. 

Sira  rose  to  meet  her,  and  clasped 
her  in  her  arms.  The  Egyptian  re- 
turned   the    embrace,     and     the    two 

12 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

women  sat  down  on  the  divan  together 
holding  each  other's  hands. 

"  Oh,  Arsinoe,"  said  Sira,  "  I  am  so 
glad  that  you  have  come;  I  have  so 
missed,  so  longed  for  you.  There  has 
been  no  one  to  whom  I  could  open  my 
heart,  none  with  whom  I  could  really 
talk  while  you  were  gone." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Egyptian,  "I  know 
you  love  me,  and  I  have  thought  of 
you  many  times  while  I  was  beside  the 
Nile.  But  you  know,  Sira,  my  life 
is  given  to  the  study  of  the  stars,  and 
of  the  magic  arts,  and  my  return  to  my 
own  country  was  a  necessity.  I  knew 
much  already;  but  I  have  learned  much 
more." 

"You  are  not  changed,"  said  Sira, 
"you  are  as  young  and  as  beautiful  as 
when  I  first  came  to  Persia;  and  even 
then  they  said  you  had  been  the 
favourite  of  Hormouz  for  many  years." 

"Yes,"  said  Arsinoe  with  a  strange 

smile,  "  I  was  the  chosen  one  of  Hormouz 

when  he  was  a  young  Prince,  before  he 

married   the   mother   of   Chosroes,   the 

13 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

Princess  Gudaferid,  in  the  days  of  the 
great  King,  Nushirvan  the  Just." 

"And  you  remained  his  favourite?" 
said  Sira. 

"  Yes,  in  spite  of  all  the  rest;  just  as 
you  remain  the  only  love  of  Chosroes. 
And  you,  Sira,"  suddenly  changing 
her  tone,  "you  too  are  still  the  same, 
Chosroes  still  loves  you,  still  lays  the 
wealth  of  the  Persian  Empire  at  your 
feet,  and  you  are  as  indifferent  to  him 
as  ever,  and  your  life,  in  spite  of  all  its 
splendour,  is  cold  and  empty  because 
you  know  not  love." 

"  Yes, "  said  Sira,  "  I  am  still  the  same. 
Chosroes  thinks  that  I  love  him;  every 
one  thinks  so;  no  one  suspects  the 
truth.  I  enjoy  the  power  and  splendour 
of  my  life;  but  I  am  weary  of  it  all. 
God  alone  knows  how  weary  of  that 
love  which  is  lavished  on  me,  which  I 
see  and  understand  in  Chosroes,  and 
which  more  than  all  I  must  feign  and 
cannot  feel.  Even  my  child  would  be 
more  dear  to  me,  if  I  but  loved  his 
father. 

14 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

"  Oh,  Arsinoe,  I  know  I  am  ungrateful 
to  Heaven,  for  I  have  everything  else, 
everything  but  the  one  thing  that 
I  desire,  the  love  for  which  I  long, 
and  without  which  everything  else  is 
nothing." 

"  Sira, "  said  the  Egyptian,  "  I  can 
read  the  stars.  I  know  your  destiny, 
and  I  tell  you  that  you  shall  have  your 
heart's  desire.  The  love  which  Chos- 
roes  has  not  been  able  in  all  these  years 
to  win,  will  bloom  like  the  flower  of 
morning  in  your  heart,  and  be  given  in 
the  moment  of  its  birth  to  whom  it  is 
destined. 

"  Most  women  learn  to  love,  but  you 
cannot;  with  you,  love  will  be  the 
lightning's  flash  which  shines  out  of 
the  East  into  the  West." 

Sira  looked  at  the  Egyptian  with  a 
new  light  in  her  eyes.  "Arsinoe,"  she 
said,  "if  you  can  give  me  this, — if 
you  can  give  me  this,  you  have  loved 
yourself." 

"Yes,"  said  Arsinoe,  "and  more 
than   once;    I    have    had   all   that   life 

IS 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

can  give!  Perhaps  it  may  be  still  that 
I  shall  love  again,  but  now  my  heart 
and  soul  are  in  my  art.  But  for  you, 
Sira,  I  will  give  you  your  heart's  de- 
sire. I  had  not  forgotten  you,  and  I 
have  brought  you  a  present. " 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  favourite. 

The  Egyptian  did  not  answer  the 
question,  but  went  on.  "  Chosroes  has 
given  me  a  house  in  the  palace  gardens, 
with  an  entrance  in  the  wall.  There  I 
have  collected  all  my  treasures,  and 
there  will  I  live  with  my  own  slaves  in 
perfect  liberty,  and  in  return  I  will  serve 
the  Shah  in  Shah  with  all  my  magic 
art,  and  all  my  knowledge  of  the  stars. 

"To-morrow  evening  Chosroes  gives 
a  banquet  that  will  last  all  night.  Tell 
him  that  you  will  come  and  spend  the 
night  with  me  studying  the  map  of 
Heaven." 

"  And  will  you  really  teach  me  to 
read  the  stars?" 

"Nay,  that  you  could  not  learn;  but 
I  will  show  you  something  else  that 
you  can  understand ;  something  which  I 
i6 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

have  brought  with  me  from  Egypt,  the 
Flower  of  Destiny." 

Sira  clasped  her  hands  in  delight. 

"  Is  that  what  you  have  brought  me  ? 
Oh,  Arsinoe,  you  are  too  good!" 

"  No, "  said  Arsinoe,  "  the  flower  of 
destiny  is  for  myself,  though  you  may 
see  it.  I  have  brought  you  something 
else,  not  from  Egypt,  but  from  Persia." 

"  What  is  it?     Tell  me,  Arsinoe. " 

And  this  time  the  Egyptian  answered : 
"The  most  beautiful  youth  in  the 
Persian  Empire." 

The  next  evening  before  the  banquet 
Chosroes  went  to  pay  a  visit  to  Sira,  who 
received  him  with  her  usual  apparent 
delight. 

The  King  of  Persia  was  tall  and  stately, 
with  straight  features,  black  eyes  and 
hair,  and  a  black  pointed  beard.  He 
might  have  been  called  handsome, 
but  for  his  expression,  which  was  stern, 
sombre,  and  impenetrable,  and  made 
him  seem  much  older  than  his  age.  His 
early  vicissitudes  and  misfortunes  had 
17 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

left  their  mark  behind;  but  Chosroes 
was  naturally  proud,  silent,  and  reserved, 
overbearing  and  tyrannical  at  times, 
but  generous,  quick  to  forgive,  and 
really  good  at  heart. 

Sira  alone  could  make  him  smile  as 
she  alone  could  make  him  laugh.  His 
whole  heart  was  hers,  and  when  he  was 
with  her  he  reflected  some  of  her 
brightness  as  a  deep  mountain  lake 
reflects  the  sunlight;  and  when  he  left 
her,  he  was  like  the  lake  again  which, 
when  the  light  is  gone,  sinks  back  into 
impenetrable  blackness. 

The  Shah  in  Shah  was  dressed  for  the 
banquet  in  royal  robes  of  purple, 
strewn  with  pearls  and  diamonds  as 
the  sky  is  strewn  with  stars.  Strings 
of  pearls  as  large  as  hazel-nuts  were 
twisted  around  his  neck  and  on  his 
head  rested  the  royal  crown  blazing 
with  jewels  of  enormous  size  and 
lustre. 

When  he  strolled  in  the  outer  apart- 
ments of  the  palace  six  pages  held  his 
train,  but  here  it  dragged  carelessly  on 
i8 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

the  green  marble  floor.  Even  the 
eunuchs  were  permitted  to  accompany 
him  no  farther  than  the  ante-chamber 
of  the  favourite,  for  Chosroes  laid 
aside  his  state  and  came  alone  to  visit 
Sira. 

When  they  were  seated  side  by  side 
on  the  divan,  Sira  told  the  King  of  her 
intended  visit  to  the  Egyptian,  well 
knowing  that  he  would  not  oppose  her 
wishes.  Chosroes,  indeed,  was  pleased 
that  she  had  something  to  console  her 
for  his  absence. 

"  I  have  not  seen  Arsinoe  since  her 
return,"  he  said;  "I  must  send  for  her 
to-morrow.  There  is  no  one  more 
faithful  to  me  than  she  or  more  useful 
with  her  knowledge  of  magic  and  the 
stars." 

Sira  was  a  Christian.  During  their 
exile  she  had  persuaded  Chosroes  to 
beg  the  assistance  of  Saint  Sergius  of 
Antioch,  which  he  had  done  with  the 
most  excellent  result.  But  the  Christ- 
ianity of  the  seventh  century  was  like 
a  muddy  stream  winding  through  a 
19 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

low  country,  less  a  religion  than  a 
superstition. 

"  Chosroes, "  she  said,  "  do  you  believe 
implicitly  in  the  arts  of  Arsinoe,  her 
power  to  tell  the  future?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  King,  "one  must. 
She  has  already  mastered  one  of  the 
greatest  of  the  arts,  the  secret  of  eternal 
youth.  To  look  at  her  she  seems  not 
more  than  twenty;  and  yet  she  was  the 
favourite  of  my  father,  Hormouz,  before 
I  was  bom.  Since  nature  has  revealed 
to  her  this  great  secret,  it  is  not  likely 
that  she  has  withheld  the  rest." 

Sira's  eyes  sparkled.  "I  am  very 
glad  that  you  speak  so, "  she  said;  "  you 
think,  then,  that  I  may  trust  her  in 
everything?" 

"Yes,"  said  Chosroes,  "even  as  I  do; 
and  I  trust  Arsinoe  as  I  do  you,  my 
heart's  delight! 

"  Oh,  Sira!  I  have  known  distress  and 
exile;  but  you  made  them  sweet,  and 
now  that  I  have  raised  the  throne  of 
Sassan  to  the  summit  of  its  glory,  now 
that  power,  wealth,  and  fame  are  mine, 
20 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

and  there  is  nothing  that  I  have  not, 
your  love  is  still  the  brightest  jewel  in 
my  crown. " 

Poor  Shah  in  Shah!  Poor  Chosroes, 
King  of  Persia,  the  glory  of  the  world 
indeed  is  yours;  but  not  the  love  of 
Sira.  And  of  the  two  women  that  you 
trust,  both  are  false ! 

When  the  King  had  left  her,  as  he 
did  a  few  moments  later,  Sira  threw 
around  her  a  dark  mantle,  and  without 
calling  any  of  her  slaves,  who  during 
the  visit  of  the  King  were  collected  in 
the  ante-chamber,  left  her  apartments 
by  a  marble  staircase  which  descended 
from  one  of  the  rooms  into  the  garden. 
There  two  eunuchs  were  waiting  her 
with  a  Chinese  palanquin,  into  which 
she  stepped.  The  curtains  were  drawn, 
and  she  was  swiftly  and  silently  trans- 
ported through  the  flowering  alleys  and 
sweetly  perfumed  groves  to  the  little 
palace  of  the  Egyptian.  There  the 
door  was  opened  by  two  more  eunuchs, 
and   she   was   admitted   into  a   richly 

21 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

decorated  hall,  where  Arsinoe  met  her. 

The  Egyptian  clasped  the  favourite 
in  her  arms,  and  then  led  her  up  a 
marble  staircase,  and  through  several 
rooms,  where  Sira  turned  her  head  from 
side  to  side  to  look  at  many  things 
which  were  not  only  rich  and  beautiful, 
but  strange:  treasures  of  Greece  and 
Egypt,  India,  China,  and  Japan. 

In  the  last  room  they  stopped,  and 
Sira  looked  around  her  in  wonder  and 
delight.  This  room  indeed,  if  not  the 
result  of  enchantment,  was  a  marvel 
of  the  art  of  the  extreme  Orient.  The 
walls  were  hung  all  around  with  a 
Chinese  embroidery  of  birds  and  flowers 
on  yellow  satin.  The  ceiling  was  gilded 
and  carved  with  an  open  work  of  carved 
black  teek,  from  which  hung  five 
splendid  Chinese  lanterns  of  teek  and 
painted  silk,  lighted,  and  filling  the 
apartment  with  a  soft  radiance.  The 
floor  was  a  mosaic  of  yellow  and  rose- 
coloured  marble. 

At  one  end  was  a  large  window  in  a 
teek-wood    frame,   whose    embroidered 

22 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

curtains  were  now  closely  drawn,  and 
at  the  other  was  the  long  low  Persian 
divan  piled  with  Chinese  cushions  of 
all  colours  embroidered  in  silk  and  gold. 
Vases  of  Chinese  porcelain  filled  with 
roses  alternated  with  carved  and  inlaid 
cabinets,  and  in  the  centre  stood  a 
wonderful  table  of  gold  lacquer.  On 
this  table  stood  a  magnificent  carved 
vase  of  jade,  in  which  was  growing  a 
strange  plant  with  dark  green  leaves 
and  one  great  purple  bud. 

As  Sira  looked  around  her  at  all  these 
wonders,  the  Egyptian  stood  and  looked 
at  her.  Never  had  the  favourite  been 
more  beautiful.  Her  dress  of  trans- 
parent gauze  spangled  with  silver, 
through  which  shimmered  rose-coloured 
silk,  was  clasped  around  her  waist  with 
a  girdle  studded  with  diamonds,  and 
clasped  at  the  bosom  with  a  great 
diamond  star.  Her  white  arms  and 
shoulders  were  bare  even  of  jewels,  but 
a  diamond  circlet  rested  on  her  head, 
and  her  hair  flowed  down  behind  her 
like  a  golden  veil.  Rose-coloured  and 
23 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

ivory  white,  glittering  with  gold,  silver, 
and  diamonds,  Sira  appeared  like  the 
incarnation  of  the  morning. 

The  Egyptian  stood  beside  her,  dark 
and  slender,  as  always,  in  dark  blue 
with  a  glimmer  of  silver,  her  black  hair 
falling  like  a  shadow  among  all  the  splen- 
dour. And  she  seemed  like  the  incar- 
nation of  the  night.  In  her  hand  she 
held  a  silver  serpent  like  a  little  sceptre ; 
and  with  the  other  hand  she  took  Sira's, 
and  led  her  to  the  table  and  showed  her 
the  strange  plant. 

"  You  cannot  learn  to  read  the  stars,  " 
she  said,  "  but  this  you  can  read;  and  it 
will  prove  to  you  that  I  tell  you  the 
truth,  and  that  I  know. 

"This  is  the  flower  of  destiny." 

With  her  silver  serpent  she  touched 
the  purple  bud,  which  opened  and  dis- 
closed a  single  dewdrop  like  a  great 
round  crystal,  lying  in  its  heart. 

"  Look, "  she  said,  and  Sira  looked 
into  the  crystal,  and  seemed  to  see 
through  it  into  another  world. 

First  she  saw  mountains,  forest  clad, 
24 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

and  flowing  through  them  a  great  river. 
On  its  banks  stood  a  rude  village,  and 
children  with  yellow  hair  were  playing 
on  the  grass.  Two  black- haired  men 
appeared  in  strange  garments;  one  of 
them  took  one  of  the  children  by  the 
hand  and  led  her  away,  and  she  knew 
that  the  child  was  herself. 

Next  she  saw  a  Greek  garden  in  Con- 
stantinople, and  a  dozen  little  girls  sit- 
ting in  a  row,  while  a  man  was  teach- 
ing them  to  play  the  lute,  and  one  of 
them  was  Sira.  Then  came  a  scene 
which  she  remembered  well.  The  pal- 
ace of  Modain,  and  her  own  presentation 
to  Chosroes.  Other  scenes  followed :  the 
royal  flight,  the  exile.  She  saw  herself 
passing  through  many  vicissitudes,  but 
always  by  the  side  of  Chosroes,  a  mother, 
with  the  infant  Siroes  in  her  arms.  And 
then  appeared  once  more  the  palace, 
and  Sira  clad  in  silks  and  jewels,  once 
more  a  queen. 

Then  a  wave  seemed  to  overflow  the 
picture,  and  blot  out  everything;  and 
then   came   one   image   alone,    that   of 

25 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

a  youth  so  beautiful  that  Sira  gazed 
at  him  as  if  under  the  spell  of  enchant- 
ment. But  at  that  moment  Arsinoe 
touched  the  flower  again,  and  it  closed 
once  more  into  a  bud;  and  Sira,  raising 
her  eyes  reluctantly,  saw  standing  in 
front  of  her  the  youth  himself. 

And  as  her  eyes  had  hung  upon  the 
picture,  so  much  more  they  hung  upon 
the  original;  and  she  could  only  say 
in  a  half  whisper:  "Arsinoe,  am  I 
dreaming?" 

"No,  Sira,"  said  the  Egyptian,  "you 
are  awake." 

Ferhad,  at  that  time  just  eighteen, 
was  in  the  first  bloom  of  that  wonderful 
beauty  which  has  made  him  famous  in 
Persian  history  and  romance. 

He  was  of  medium  height,  slender 
and  graceful,  with  exquisite  hands  and 
feet,  and  a  noble  head,  covered  with 
short  curls  of  blue-black  hair,  which 
he  held  as  if  he  wore  a  crown.  His 
skin  was  a  clear  pale  olive,  with  a  rose 
flush  in  his  cheeks,  and  his  features 
were  of  the  purest  Persian  mould.  His 
26 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

eyebrows  were  so  delicate  and  perfect 
that  they  seemed  as  if  traced  with  a 
pencil,  and  his  eyes,  fringed  with  long 
black  lashes,  were  blue!  His  lips  were 
so  red  and  beautiful,  that  they  seemed 
made  only  to  be  kissed,  and  his  expres- 
sion was  both  proud  and  sweet. 

Ferhad  was  very  simply  clad,  in  the 
old  Persian  costume,  which  strongly  re- 
sembled the  fourteenth-century  doublet 
and  hose — his  doublet,  which  fitted 
him  closely,  being  of  ruby  red  edged 
with  a  line  of  gold,  and  his  hose 
of  soft  undressed  leather.  His  feet 
were  encased  in  red  shoes,  and  he  wore 
nothing  on  his  head,  and  no  jewel 
anywhere. 

Sira  moved  a  step  or  two  nearer  to 
this  new  wonder.  It  seemed  as  if  she 
could  not  believe  that  he  was  real. 

"  Arsinoe, "  she  said  in  Greek  without 
turning  her  head,  "will  the  red  rub  off 
his  lips?" 

"Try,"  replied    the    Egyptian,    and, 
lifting  the  flower  of  destiny  from  the 
table,  she  silently  left  the  room. 
27 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

Sira  took  another  step  forward  and 
another. 

Ferhad  did  not  move  or  speak,  but 
he  looked  at  her  with  a  smile  so  sweet 
that  Sira  forgot  she  was  a  Christian. 
She  held  out  her  arms  toward  him, 
stepped  up  to  him,  and  clasped  her  arms 
round  his  neck.  Then  slowly  she  raised 
her  lips  to  his  and  kissed  him. 

The  red  did  not  rub  off.  Ferhad  was 
real.  But  a  thrill  like  fire  shot  through 
Sira's  heart.  She  had  had  many  kisses, 
and  royal  ones,  but  never  had  she 
known  that  a  kiss  could  be  so  sweet. 

A  delicious  shame  overcame  her. 
She  hid  her  face  on  Ferhad's  shoulder, 
and  then  she  felt  how  he  clasped  her  in 
his  arms  and  pressed  her  to  him  and 
kissed  her  on  the  neck. 

She  trembled;  thrills  of  fire  ran 
through  her,  and  a  strange  sweet 
languor  stole  over  all  her  senses.  She 
forgot  the  existence  of  the  King  of 
Persia.  She  forgot  her  child.  There 
seemed  to  her  to  be  no  one  else  left  in 
the  world  but  herself  and  Ferhad. 
28 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

In  the  banqueting  hall  of  the  palace, 
hundreds  of  lamps  hung  from  the  gilded 
ceiling.  The  marble  columns  were 
twined  with  roses,  and  the  long  table 
blazed  with  gold  and  silver,  and  glowed 
with  the  bright  colours  of  fruit  and 
flowers.  And  in  his  chair  of  state,  sur- 
rounded by  the  nobles  of  his  Empire, 
Chosroes  sat  like  Belshazzar  at  the 
feast. 

This  time  there  was  no  warning,  no 
writing  on  the  wall.  The  King  of 
Persia  looked  around  him,  and  thought 
how  now  he  stood  on  the  pinnacle  of 
earthly  happiness  and  glory.  And  with 
that  thought  there  came  to  him  another 
strangely  clear  and  vivid, — the  memory 
of  his  days  of  exile.  For  a  moment  it 
hung  upon  him  like  a  cloud  upon  the 
mountain,  and  seemed  to  cut  him  off 
from  everything.  But  then  he  put  it 
from  him  saying  in  his  heart,  "  Now, 
all  is  well. " 

Oh,  Chosroes!  you  too  have  been 
weighed  in  the  balance  and  found 
wanting,  and  your  days  of  exile  were 
29 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

better  than  those  that  are  to  come, 
and  which  begin  to-night.  Then  you 
still  had  the  future,  now  you  have 
nothing  but  the  past! 

The  dawn  flushed  in  the  East  when 
Sira  returned  to  the  palace,  and  the 
gardens  glittered  with  dew  as  if  strewn 
with  diamonds. 

To  Sira,  as  she  looked  out  through 
the  curtains  of  her  palanquin,  the  whole 
world  seemed  changed.  For  years 
pleasure,  splendour,  and  renown  had 
been  her  portion;  but  now  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  she  had  tasted  of 
happiness! 

Sira  mounted  her  outside  staircase, 
and  entered  her  bedroom  from  the 
balcony.  Here  the  rose-coloured  cur- 
tains were  shut  and  the  tapers  in  the 
alabaster  lamps  were  burnt  out.  In 
the  dim  light  she  saw  her  favotirite  slaves 
lying  asleep  on  the  thick  carpet  which 
covered  the  floor;  but  she  did  not  wake 
them.  At  the  end  of  her  room  her  bed, 
square  canopied,  and  carved  of  massive 
30 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

silver  with  rose-coloured  curtains,  stood 
on  a  dais.  For  the  first  time  since  she 
had  been  Queen  of  Persia,  Sira  undressed 
herself,  and  slipping  between  her  per- 
fumed sheets,  lost  herself,  but  not  her 
sense  of  delight,  in  the  sweetest  sleep 
she  had  ever  known. 

When  she  awoke  the  sun  was  high 
in  heaven.  She  did  not  move,  but 
looked  around  her  with  a  new  interest 
in  everything.  The  walls  and  ceiling 
of  the  room  were  panelled  with  rose- 
wood, inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl, 
which  glimmered  with  rainbow  colours. 
All  around  the  walls  were  carved  and 
inlaid  chests  which  held  her  dresses  and 
jewels,  and  on  each  side  of  her  bed 
stood  low  round  tables  of  ebony  inlaid 
with  silver,  on  which  stood  all  the  arti- 
cles of  an  Oriental  toilet,  made  in  gold 
and  silver  and  decked  with  precious 
stones.  It  was  indeed  the  chamber  of 
a  queen. 

For  a  few  moments  Sira  remained 
alone,  and  then  her  favourite,  a  Persian 
girl  named  Mandane,  entered  the  room 
31 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

bearing  a  tray  with  bread  and  fruit  and 
wine.  She  approached  the  bed,  and, 
finding  her  mistress  awake,  arranged 
her  pillows  that  she  might  sit  up  and 
take  her  breakfast. 

"My  lady,"  she  said,  "the  Lady 
Arsinoe  is  waiting  till  you  are  ready 
to  see  her." 

"Let  her  come  to  me  at  once,"  said 
Sira,  and  when  the  Egyptian  appeared, 
she  dismissed  the  slave,  and  made 
Arsinoe  sit  beside  her  on  the  bed. 

"Well,  Sira,"  said  Arsinoe  with  her 
strange  smile, , "  have  I  done  well  for 
you  or  not?" 

"Well,"  replied  Sira,  "more  than 
well, "  and  she  took  Arsinoe' s  hands  and 
kissed  them.  "  You  have  given  me  my 
heart's  desire." 

"  And  what, "  asked  the  Egyptian, 
"  will  you  do  for  me  in  return? " 

"Whatever  you  will,  if  it  lies  within 
the  power  of  Sira  or  of  Chosroes. " 

"Oh,"    said    Arsinoe,    "Chosroes    is 
not  then  quite  forgotten.     The  King  of 
Persia  has  his  uses  still  ? " 
32 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

Sira  blushed.  "Tell  me,  Arsinoe," 
she  said,  "what  I  can  do  for  you?" 

"Nothing,"  replied  the  Egyptian, 
"nothing  now;  but  perhaps  some  day 
there  will  be  something,  and  then  I  will 
remind  you  of  your  promise." 

Sira  kissed  her  hands  again.  "I 
owe  you  everything,"  she  said;  "and 
now  tell  me  about  Ferhad.  Where  did 
you  find  him,  and  who  is  he?  Surely 
a  prince  of  royal  blood?" 

"  Have  you  found  that  beauty  is  a 
sign  of  royal  blood?" 

"  Oh,  not  among  the  Sassanids, "  said 
Sira,  "  but  the  founder  of  their  race  was 
a  blacksmith;  they  are  not  really  royal. 
Ferhad  may  come  from  the  Pishdanian 
Kings  or  from  the  Princes  of  Sejestan. '" 
The  Egyptian  laughed.  "  Four  hundred 
years  of  royalty  are  not  enough  for 
Sira.  No,  Ferhad  is  a  slave  like  your- 
self. His  mother  was  a  dancing  girl 
of  Ispahan,  and  his  origin  on  the  other 
side  is  as  dark  as  your  own." 

Sira  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then 
asked  where  the  Egyptian  had  found  him, 
3  33 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

"  I  bought  him  from  a  learned  Das- 
tur,"  she  said  "who  came  to  consult 
me  about  the  study  of  the  stars.  He 
had  bought  him  from  his  mother  when 
he  was  a  child,  and  taught  him  to  read 
and  write,  and  made  of  him  a  secretary." 

"  I  thought  him  too  young  and  beauti- 
ful for  such  dry  work,  so  I  brought  him 
to  you.  His  destiny  was  evident  to 
me  without  the  aid  of  the  stars.  ' ' 

"A  slave  like  myself,"  said  Sira 
slowly;  "well,  it  is  better  so,  for  had  he 
been  an5rthing  else,  you  could  not  have 
brought  him  to  me.  O  Arsinoe,  I  can 
never  repay  you,  nothing  will  be 
enough.  You  have  given  me  the  one 
thing  I  asked  and  longed  for.  You 
have  made  my  life  complete. " 

The  Egyptian  smiled.  "Yes,"  she 
said,  "  now  you  have  everything.  Yours 
is  a  brilliant  destiny. " 

Sira  laughed.  "Yes,"  she  said, 
"while  it  lasts.  But  now  that  I  have 
tasted  of  love  and  the  real  joy  of  life, 
I  will  not  complain  of  anything  that 
may  come  afterwards." 
34 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

"You  are  right,"  said  the  Egyptian, 
"  one  hour  of  perfect  happiness  is  worth 
a  lifetime  in  which  that  hour  is  wanting." 
Sira  remained  lost  in  thought  for  a 
moment  or  two,  and  then  asked :  "  When 
shall  I  see  Ferhad  again?" 

"Oh,"  said  Arsinoe,"  it  will  take  all 
my  art  to  arrange  your  meetings.  This 
afternoon  Chosroes  will  be  with  you, 
and  morning  is  ffot  the  time  for  love; 
but  we  must  do  as  we  can.  You 
shall  see  him  at  my  house  to-morrow 
morning. " 

Then  she  explained  to  Sira  the  ar- 
rangements of  her  household.  Her 
slaves,  a  dozen  or  more,  were  those  who 
had  been  given  her  by  her  royal  lover, 
Hormouz.  They  were  now  elderly 
women;  she  alone  remained  young. 
Her  two  eunuchs  were  elderly  also,  and 
the  only  youthful  inmate  of  her  house 
was  her  page,  Ferhad.  This  indeed 
was  not  in  accordance  with  the  Oriental 
custom,  though  the  Persian  harem  had 
never  been  as  strict  as  the  Mohammedan 
became;  but  Arsinoe  was  subject  to  no 
35 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

rules,  and  came  and  went  as  she  liked 
and  might  have  had  a  dozen  pages 
instead  of  one. 

Sira  wanted  to  talk  about  Ferhad, 
but  he  had  been  so  short  a  time  with 
the  Egyptian,  that  there  was  not  much 
to  tell.  Arsinoe  could  only  relate  that 
he  was  very  much  pleased  with  the 
change  in  his  life,  and  filled  with  delight 
at  the  luxury  and  splendour  of  his  new 
surroundings,  and  that  he  showed 
good  taste  and  artistic  appreciation  of 
the  beautiful  in  both  art  and  nature. 

His  duties  as  a  page  were  merely 
nominal,  and  he  possessed  the  true 
Oriental  enjoyment  of  idleness  combined 
with  a  rare  power  of  amusing  himself. 

"Now,"  concluded  the  Egyptian, 
"I  have  given  him,  in  giving  him  to 
you,  the  one  thing  he  lacked.  This 
morning  he  came  to  me,  and  thanked 
me  again  as  he  has  done  several  times 
before,  for  buying  him  from  the  Dastur, 
and  told  me  with  much  sweetness  and 
grace,  that  now  he  was  perfectly  happy." 

Sira  clapped  her  hands  in  delight  and 
36 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

began  to  speak,  when  at  that  moment, 
there  ran  into  the  room  a  child,  dark, 
not  pretty,  but  most  richly  dressed,  and 
decked  with  jewels,  Siroes,  the  heir  of 
Persia.  He  ran  to  Sira,  and  entwined 
his  arms  around  her  neck  and  kissed 
her.  He  had  a  passionate  nature  and 
a  violent  temper,  and  often  showed 
himself  haughty,  overbearing,  and  un- 
just ;  but  he  loved  his  mother. 

"  How  old  is  Siroes  now, "  asked  the 
Egyptian;  "this  year  that  I  have  been 
away  there  are  some  things  that  I 
forget." 

"  Siroes  is  nine, "  said  Sira. 

"Just  half  the  age  of  your  lover!" 
said  the  Egyptian;  "but  it  does  not 
matter.  You  belong  to  the  Occident, 
he  to  the  Orient.  You  are  young  for 
your  age,  and  he  is  old  for  his;  and  for 
that  nothing  matters  when  it  is  destiny." 

The  next  morning  Sira  had  herself 

dressed  in  a  robe  of  emerald  green  with 

stripes  of  gold,  and  decked  with  pearls 

and  emeralds,  and  was  carried  in   her 

37 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

palanquin  to  the  little  palace  in  the 
garden.  Again  Arsinoe  received  her 
and  led  her  to  the  Chinese  room  where 
again  she  found  Ferhad.  The  young 
Persian  seemed  to  her  more  beautiful, 
more  attractive  than  before.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life  she  doubted  her 
own  beauty,  because  it  seemed  to  her 
less  than  his.  This  time  he  came  to 
meet  her  with  his  most  radiant  smile, 
and  Sira  threw  herself  into  his  arms, 
and  they  kissed  each  other  to  their 
hearts'  delight. 

Sira  was  an  intelligent,  and,  for  her 
time,  a  brilliant  woman.  She  wished 
to  talk  to  her  lover,  and  to  know  his 
mind  as  well  as  his  heart.  Ferhad  sus- 
tained the  ordeal  very  well.  He  was 
naturally  clever,  and  had  been  carefully 
educated  by  his  old  master. 

Sira  was  charmed  by  his  brilliancy 
as  with  his  evident  cultivation,  and 
found  him  as  well  versed  as  herself  in 
Persian  literature  and  poetry.  Greek 
he  did  not  speak,  but  Sira  promised 
him  that  she  would  tell  him  all  that  she 

38 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

knew  of  the  literature  and  poetry  of 
that  glorious  language. 

His  mind  seemed  to  unfold  for  her 
like  a  flower  in  the  sunshine,  and  Sira 
gazed  at  him  in  an  intense  delight, 
thinking  him  the  most  perfect  creature 
in  the  world;  her  love  for  him  growing 
more  passionate  with  every  moment. 
Suddenly  she  remembered  what  the 
Egyptian  had  told  her  of  his  delight 
in  luxury  and  splendour. 

"  Ferhad, "  she  said,  "  do  you  care 
for  jewels?" 

"  Yes, "  replied  Ferhad,  "  I  love  them," 
and  he  passed  his  fingers  across  the 
emeralds  on  her  arm.  "  You  have 
many,  many  diamonds,  emeralds, 
pearls.  You  are  the  favourite  of  the 
King." 

"And  you  have  none,"  said  Sira. 

"  No,  I  have  never  had  one  in  my 
life." 

Sira  quickly  took  from  her  third  fin- 
ger an  Indian  ring,  diamonds  in  green 
enamel,  and  slipped  it  on  his  little 
finger.     Ferhad's  eyes  sparkled  and  he 

39 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

flushed  with  pleasure.  **  Oh,  Sira,  do 
you  give  this  to  me?" 

"  Yes, "  said  Sira,  "  that  and  every- 
thing else  that  you  may  desire.  The 
Shah  in  Shah  lays  the  wealth  of  his 
Empire  at  my  feet,  and  I  will  share  it  all 
with  you." 

Ferhad  thanked  her  with  a  kiss. 
There  was  no  more  talk  of  anything 
but  love,  and  the  time  was  all  too  short. 

Sira  the  favovirite  of  Chosroes  now  led 
a  new  and  (her  conscience  remaining 
silent)  perfectly  happy  life.  The  Shah 
in  Shah  finding  her  bright  with  a  new 
brightness,  and  sweet  with  a  strange 
new  charm,  delighted  in  and  loved  her 
more  and  more.  And  she  sought  to 
please  him  more  than  ever;  for  now  she 
looked  to  him  not  for  herself  alone, 
but  for  all  she  gave  Ferhad.  Her  lover 
liked  jewels  and  rich  garments,  and 
splendid  arms  (which  indeed  he  never 
used,  since  his  life  was  confined  within 
the  palace  and  garden  of  Arsinoe,  but 
with  which  he  liked  to  play) .  And  all 
40 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

these,  or  the  money  with  which  she 
bought  them,  came  from  Chosroes  and 
went  to  Ferhad. 

It  was  not  possible  for  Sira  to  see  him 
every  day,  but  she  went  whenever  she 
could  to  the  little  palace  where  he,  who 
had  nothing  alse  to  do,  was  always 
waiting  for  her. 

Ferhad  was  an  ideal  lover.  His  dis- 
position was  naturally  sweet,  though 
not  lacking  in  fire.  And  his  manner 
was  as  gentle  and  tender  as  the  heart 
of  woman  could  desire.  But  perhaps 
what  Sira  loved  in  him  the  most  was  his 
dignity,  and  the  pride  which  made  him 
hold  his  head  as  if  he  wore  a  crown. 

He  kissed  and  caressed  her  to  her 
heart's  delight,  but  never  did  he  throw 
himself  at  her  feet  or  show  her  anything 
approaching  servile  homage.  Ferhad 
knew  his  own  power.  He  accepted  the 
favourite  of  Chosroes  as  no  more  than 
his  right.  For  her  he  was  never  the 
slave  but  always  the  master. 

Their   interviews   always   took   place 
in  the  yellow  salon  in  which  they  had 
41 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

seen  each  other  first;  sometimes  in  the 
morning,  sometimes  in  the  afternoon, 
and,  whenever  Chosroes  gave  a  banquet, 
at  night. 

Sira's  devotion  to  the  Egyptian  and 
constant  visits  to  her  home  created  no 
surprise.  Arsinoe  had  always  been  her 
chosen  friend,  and  during  the  year  of 
her  absence  in  Egypt  the  favourite 
had  loudly  lamented  her  loss.  And  in 
addition  to  this,  Sira  had  always  read 
and  studied,  and  now  it  created  no 
astonishment  that  she  was  studying, 
as  she  gave  out,  the  science  of  the  stars. 

Everything  went  happily;  no  sus- 
picion clouded  the  mind  of  Chosroes, 
or  indeed  of  any  one,  and  fortune 
favoured  in  everything  the  love  of  Sira 
and  Ferhad.  Days  of  joy  succeeded 
each  other,  and  the  Persian  summer 
with  its  great  heat,  its  glory  of  sunlight, 
and  its  wealth  of  roses,  passed  away 
like  a  dream  of  delight. 

In  the  end  of  September,  just  as  the 
nights  were  growing  cooler,  was  the 
birthday  of  Chosroes;  and  on  this  day, 
42 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

in  addition  to  all  the  f^tes  and  cere- 
monies in  his  own  honour,  it  was  always 
the  custom  of  the  great  King  to  make 
some  magnificent  present  to  his  fa- 
vourite. A  tender  thought  to  let  her 
share  his  birthday  since,  being  a  slave, 
she  did  not  know  her  own!  This  year 
his  present  was  a  pavilion  containing 
a  bath  which  he  had  had  built  for  her 
at  some  distance  from  the  palace  in 
the  Royal  Park  in  the  midst  of  a  grove 
of  sweet  pines. 

Here  there  was  a  crystal  spring  which 
bubbled  up  in  a  natural  basin  of  perhaps 
fifteen  feet  in  diameter  and  four  or  five 
feet  in  depth.  This  basin  had  been 
enclosed  and  paved  around  with  ala- 
baster, and  a  hexagonal  pavilion  whose 
whole  interior  was  of  the  same  precious 
material  had  been  built  over  it,  a  pa- 
vilion with  no  windows  in  its  shining 
walls,  but  crowned  with  a  dome  of 
gilded  fretwork  and  rose-coloured  glass. 
Around  the  walls  of  this  apartment 
ran  a  luxuriant  divan,  rugs  were  spread 
on  the  translucent  floor,   inlaid  tables 

43 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

and  vases  of  flowers  stood  carelessly 
about;  and  in  every  panel  of  the  hexagon 
was  a  magnificent  silver  sconce  filled 
with  wax  lights. 

In  front  of  the  bath  was  another 
room  or  ante-chamber  equally  luxuri- 
ous, and  also  light  from  the  roof;  and 
the  whole  building  made  a  splendid 
and  absolutely  secluded  retreat — an 
impregnable  fortress  of  love. 

Sira  was  delighted  with  this  new  ac- 
quisition, and  her  first  thought  was  to 
share  her  delight  with  Ferhad.  This 
was  not  so  easy,  especially  since  Chos- 
roes,  pleased  with  the  new  toy,  wished 
to  enjoy  it  himself.  But  fortune  once 
more  showed  herself  the  friend  of  the 
lovers.  The  month  of  October  arrived, 
and  the  Shah  in  Shah,  as  was  his  custom, 
for  he  dearly  loved  the  chase,  set  out 
with  a  tremendous  retinue  for  a  month's 
hunting  in  the  mountains  of  Kurdistan. 

And  now  came  the  time  of  Sira's  per- 
fect happiness,  the  zenith  of  her  life 
and  love.  On  the  first  day  of  the  Shah 
in  Shah's  departure,  Arsinoe  brought 
44 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

Ferhad  to  the  pavilion  in  the  dress  of 
a  female  attendant  and  left  him  there; 
and  from  that  time,  while  the  October 
moon  waxed  and  waned,  the  existence 
of  the  King  of  Persia  was  forgotten; 
and  whether  in  the  pavilion,  the  little 
palace,  or  in  the  sweet  pine  grove,  where 
now  they  walked  by  sun  or  moon,  the  lov- 
ers spent  their  days  and  nights  together. 

None  surprised  or  even  suspected  their 
secret.  Perhaps  Arsinoe  helped  with 
her  magic  arts  to  close  all  curious  eyes 
and  ears;  but  more  likely  it  was  only 
destiny,  which  sometimes  allows  us  to 
pluck  a  rose  before  she  shuts  us  out  of 
the  garden  of  life  forever. 

At  the  end  of  the  month  Chosroes 
returned  to  Artemita,  and  the  dream 
of  love  was  over.  After  a  month  of 
absence  from  his  beloved,  the  King 
could  not  bear  her  for  a  moment  out  of 
his  sight.  When  she  went  to  her  pa- 
vilion, he  accompanied  her.  Her  visits 
to  Arsinoe  became  impossible,  and  thus 
a  whole  week  passed  in  which  she  did 
not  see  her  lover. 

45 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

Ferhad,  whose  occupation  was  gone, 
wearied  himself  so  in  the  little  palace, 
that  Arsinoe,  for  the  first  time,  gave 
him  permission  to  go  and  amuse  him- 
self in  the  town  and  bazaars.  Unwise 
indulgence!  Ferhad  had  occasionally 
enjoyed  this  privilege  in  Ispahan,  and 
he  knew  the  pleasures  afforded  by  all 
towns.  He  went  to  the  bazaars  and  to 
the  wine  shops  where  he  met  other  young 
men.  All  the  veiled  women  in  the 
streets  turned  to  look  at  him,  and  the 
unveiled  ones,  the  dancing  girls,  stopped 
and  talked  with  him,  and  tried  to  beguile 
him  with  their  charms,  not  knowing 
that  he  was  the  lover  of  Sira,  the  fa- 
vourite of  Chosroes.  And  it  all  pleased 
Ferhad  and  he  amused  himself  very 
well. 

At  last  Sira  was  able  to  see  him  again 
in  the  house  of  Arsinoe.  She  threw 
herself  into  his  arms,  and  he  was  en- 
chanted to  see  her  again ;  but  it  was  not 
long  before  she  learned  that  he  had 
found  a  new  interest,  for  when  she 
asked  him  what  she  should  give  him 
46 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

after  their  separation,  he  replied: 
"Money  to  spend  in  the  bazaars." 

"But,"  she  said,  "do  I  not  give  you 
everything  you  want?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "but  I  like  to  buy 
things  for  myself,  to  have  money  to 
spend. " 

A  chill  presentiment  of  evil  passed 
through  Sira's  heart — the  thought  that 
he  was  going,  and  wished  to  go,  some- 
where where  she  could  not  follow. 
She  tried  to  dissuade  him  from  this 
new  idea;  but  soon  saw  it  was  in  vain, 
and  was  too  clever  to  persist. 

"A  young  man  cannot  stay  always 
shut  up  in  a  harem  like  a  girl,"  said 
Ferhad;  "  I  must  go  out  and  see  a  little 
of  the  world  outside." 

And  so  the  next  day  Sira  brought 
him  money,  and  from  that  time  he 
went  regularly  and  made  friends  with 
other  young  men  and  bought  himself 
things,  and  sometimes  watched  the 
dancing  girls,  and  he  brought  little 
presents  to  Sira,  which  delighted  her 
more  than  all  the  gifts  of  Chosroes. 
47 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

They  were  bought  with  her  own  money, 
indeed,  but  that  was  nothing,  since  he 
might  have  spent  it  all  on  himself,  and 
instead,  he  thought  of  her.  His  visits 
to  the  town  never  interfered  with  hers 
to  him;  he  never  kept  her  waiting,  and 
so  she  reconciled  herself  to  the  idea 
that  a  man  must  have  an  outside  life. 
The  winter  passed  and  it  was  spring 
again.  The  sun  grew  hot  and  the 
nightingales  sang  in  the  royal  gardens. 

The  town  of  Artemita  or  Dastragerd, 
for  it  went  by  both  names,  grew  hot 
and  dusty,  and  the  wine  shops  by  the 
river  lost  their  charm.  It  was  not  a 
real  city  after  all;  but  merely  a  town 
which  had  grown  around  the  royal 
residence.  And  Ferhad,  having  ex- 
hausted all  its  pleasures,  tired  of  it 
and  ceased  to  visit  it  at  all. 

Sira  was  delighted  with  this  change, 
and  told  herself  that  her  lover's  desire 
for  an  outside  life  had  been  only  a 
passing  fancy,  and  that  he  really  cared 
for  nothing  but  to  be  with  her.  We 
believe  so  readily  what  we  want  to 
48 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

believe.  And  Ferhad  was  glad  to  be 
with  Sira,  for  he  loved  her;  but  he  still 
longed  for  an  outside  life,  only  not  that 
of  Dastragerd,  but  the  life  of  a  great 
city,  such  as  Modain  or  Ctesiphon. 
But  as  this  he  could  not  have,  he  shut 
himself,  this  time  voluntarily,  within 
the  limits  of  the  little  palace  and  garden, 
and  once  more  devoted  his  whole  time 
to  love. 

The  first  month,  the  month  of  June, 
was  like  a  dream  of  Paradise.  Ferhad 
and  Sira  thought  of  nothing  but  each 
other,  and  Ferhad  consoled  himself 
for  the  loss  of  outside  amusement  with 
the  thought  that  he  occupied  a  unique 
position  in  being  the  lover  of  the  beloved 
of  the  great  King  of  Persia.  Only  he 
would  have  liked  that  the  fact  should 
be  known  to  the  world, — sweet  im- 
possibility, since  his  life  would  have 
been  the  price  of  such  renown. 

As  the  summer  grew  hotter,  Fer- 
had's  temper  showed  itself  less  sweet. 
Always  imperious,  he  became  now 
capricious  and  hard  to  please.  Some- 
4  49 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

times  he  quarrelled  with  Sira,  but  the 
quarrels  were  but  short,  for  though  the 
fault  was  always  his,  Sira  never  failed 
to  throw  herself  at  his  feet  and  beg  his 
pardon.  Whereupon  he  forgave  and 
restored  to  his  favour  her  whose  only 
fault  toward  him  was  that  she  loved 
him  too  much. 

And  so  the  summer  passed,  and  again 
the  hunting  season  of  the  King  ap- 
proached. Sira  was  already  revelling 
in  the  thought  of  her  month  of  liberty, 
when  suddenly  one  day  Ferhad  told 
her  that  he  wished  to  go  in  the  train 
of  Chosroes  to  Kurdistan. 

The  shock  was  terrible.  Sira  could 
only  weep,  and  Ferhad  was  so  moved 
by  her  grief  that  he  almost  lost  his 
desire  to  go.  He  took  her  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her,  and  consoled  her  with 
such  tenderness  and  told  her  with  so 
much  sweetness,  that  he  only  wished 
to  see  a  little  of  life  that  he  might  be 
more  worthy  of  her,  that  she  consented 
that  he  should  go. 

It  was  easily  arranged.  Arsinoe 
SO 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

recommended  him  as  a  young  man  in 
whom  she  was  interested  to  Chosroes, 
who,  carelessly  concluding  that  he  was 
her  son,  gave  him  a  place  among  his 
immediate  attendants  for  the  hunting 
month,  since  that  was  all  he  asked. 

With  many  kisses  the  young  Persian 
parted  from  his  lady,  and  started  in 
great  delight  in  the  train  of  the  great 
King,  to  see  the  world.  But  alas  for 
earthly  hopes!  From  the  moment  in 
which  the  eyes  of  Chosroes  first  rested 
upon  him,  instinct  seemed  to  inspire 
the  Shah  in  Shah  with  an  intense 
dislike  of  this  most  beautiful  youth  of 
his  Empire. 

The  frown  of  Kings  means  ruin.  Try 
as  Ferhad  could  and  did  to  please  the 
King,  his  royal  master,  nothing  availed. 
Chosroes  slighted  and  found  fault  with 
him  on  every  occasion.  The  general 
of  course  followed  the  royal  disfavour, 
and  Ferhad's  life  became  a  burden. 
But  all  things  end,  and  so  the  month 
of  hunting  ended,  and  Ferhad  was  re- 
turned to  his  Egyptian  mistress  with 
SI 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

the  remark  that  he  was  too  beautiful 
to  be  of  any  use,  and  the  advice  to 
keep  him  henceforth  where  he  belonged, 
in  the  harem. 

Arsinoe  received  him  back  with  pleas- 
ure, and  Ferhad,  who  had  now  learned 
how  well  off  he  had  been  and  who  had 
lost  all  fancy  for  the  world,  embraced 
her  as  if  she  had  been  indeed  his  mother, 
and  thanked  her  once  more  for  all  that 
she  had  done  for  him.  And  then  he 
threw  himself  into  the  arms  of  Sira  and 
told  her  that  he  had  never  known  how 
much  he  loved  her  before  and  that  he 
would  never  leave  her  again.  Sira 
felt  herself  more  than  repaid  for  the 
sacrifice  that  she  had  made,  and  perfect 
happiness  was  now  restored. 

Again  it  was  spring,  spring  of  the 
year  621,  the  year  before  the  Hejira. 

The  war  indemnity  which  Chosroes 
had  claimed  from  the  Romans  had  never 
been  paid,  owing  to  the  impoverished 
state  of  the  Empire.  And  now  the 
Shah  in  Shah  received  secret  informa- 

52 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

tion  that  Heraclius  was  at  last  amassing 
the  treasure  indeed;  not  for  tribute, 
but  for  the  purpose  of  making  a  new 
war  in  hopes  of  winning  back  his  lost 
provinces  and  reconstructing  the  Roman 
Empire. 

Chosroes  received  the  news  with 
strange  misgivings.  The  night  before 
he  had  had  a  dream  in  which  he  had 
seen  himself  crowned  and  seated  on  his 
throne,  when  suddenly  Heraclius  strode 
into  his  presence,  tore  the  diadem  from 
his  brow,  and  hurled  him  from  the 
throne. 

A  presentiment  of  evil  such  as  he  had 
felt  at  the  banquet  two  years  before 
overcame  him,  and  in  a  sudden  haste 
to  know  the  worst,  he  called  for  his 
litter,  and  had  himself  carried  to  the 
house  of  the  Egyptian,  Arsinoe. 

His  arrival,  so  sudden  and  uncere- 
monious, would  have  struck  terror  to 
the  heart  of  any  woman  less  wise;  but 
happily  Sira  was  not  there,  and  as  Ar- 
sinoe received  the  King,  she  saw  at  once 
that  he  had  come  to  her  not  as  an 
S3 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

accuser,  but  as  one  who  sought  her  aid. 
Dismissing  all  his  attendants,  he  asked 
her  to  lead  him  to  her  most  private 
apartment,  where  they  could  converse 
undisturbed.  And,  by  the  irony  of 
fate,  the  Egyptian  took  him  to  the 
Chinese  apartment,  which,  for  the  last 
two  years,  had  been  the  scene  of  the 
love  of  Sira  and  Ferhad. 

Here  Chosroes  told  her  of  his  dream 
and  of  the  news  he  had  received.  Ar- 
sinoe  looked  very  grave.  The  stars  she 
said  had  given  her  no  warning,  but  they 
were  slow  and  silent  at  the  best,  and  she 
had  a  quicker  means. 

Praying  the  King  to  excuse  her  ab- 
sence for  a  moment,  she  left  the  room, 
returning  presently  with  her  silver  ser- 
pent in  her  hand,  and  followed  by  Ferhad 
bearing  the  flower  of  destiny,  which 
he  placed  upon  the  table  and  made  a 
low  and  graceful  obeisance  to  the 
King.  Chosroes  looked  with  a  haughty 
stare  at  the  young  man,  who,  though  a 
slave,  wore  a  costume  rich  enough  for 
a  prince,  and  glittered  with  jewels,  and 
54 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

whose  beauty  was  more  wonderful  than 
it  had  been  when  he  first  appeared  at 
Artemita. 

"Oh,"  said  the  King,  "my  sometime 
page.  Tell  me,  Arsinoe,  is  he  your  son 
or  your  lover?" 

"  Neither,  great  King, "  replied  the 
Egyptian. 

"  Then, "  said  Chosroes,  "  why  do  you 
lavish  such  wealth  upon  him?" 

"Oh,  Shah  in  Shah,"  said  Arsinoe, 
with  a  strange  smile,  "if  you  would 
know  my  secrets,  you  must  learn  to 
read  the  stars." 

"  Nay, "  said  the  King,  "  keep  your 
secrets,  but  this  youth  I  think,  costs 
you  a  great  deal  more  than  he  is  worth." 

He  looked  at  Ferhad,  on  whom  all 
other  eyes  rested  with  delight,  with  a 
mixture  of  royal  insolence,  dislike, 
and  scorn. 

And  Ferhad  looked  at  the  King,  and 
longed  to  tell  him  that  his  jewels  were 
the  gifts  of  Sira, — that  he  held  her  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  her  every  day  in 
this  very  room,  and  that  she  had  given 
55 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

him  not  jewels  and  kisses  only,  but 
that  heart  which  the  King  thought  his. 
For  a  moment  it  almost  seemed  as  if 
he  would  speak;  but  life  is  sweet  and, 
following  a  sign  from  his  mistress,  he 
made  another  obeisance  and  withdrew. 

Then  Arsinoe  turned  to  Chosroes, 
and  asked  what  question  he  wished  to 
put  to  the  flower  of  destiny.  The  King 
thought  for  a  moment  and  then  said: 
"  I  would  like  to  know  who  is  the  great- 
est man  who  lives,  and  who  will  leave 
the  greatest  name  in  history?  Is  it 
Chosroes  or  is  it  Heraclius?" 

Arsinoe  spoke  some  words  in  a  strange 
language  and,  touching  the  flower  of 
destiny  with  her  serpent,  it  opened, 
disclosing  the  great  dewdrop  in  its  heart. 

"  Look, "  she  said,  and  Chosroes, 
leaning  over  the  strange  plant,  looked 
into  the  crystal.  There  he  saw  a 
picture  of  the  desert;  the  deep  blue 
sky  bending  over  the  red  sand.  And 
under  a  red  rock  sat  a  man  in  a  dress  of 
camel's  hair  with  a  face  such  in  beauty 
and  power  as  the  King  of  Persia  had 
56 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

never  seen.  His  black  eyes  seemed  to 
the  King  to  look  him  through  and 
through,  and  then  to  pass  him  by  with 
a  gaze  which  looked  beyond  "all  time 
into  eternity."  Chosroes  drew  back 
with  a  sensation  that  was  almost  fear, 
and  once  more  the  flower  of  destiny 
closed  into  a  bud. 

"But,"  said  the  King,  "I  asked  for 
the  greatest  man.  This  is  neither 
Heraclius  nor  myself." 

"  No, "  said  Arsinoe,  "  neither  the 
Shah  in  Shah,  nor  yet  the  Emperor, 
but  still  the  greatest  man  on  earth, 
Mohammed." 

"What!"  cried  the  King,  "the  mad 
Arab?  Impossible!  I  had  but  lately 
heard  that  he  was  forsaken  even  by  his 
own  tribe  of  the  Koresh  and  driven 
from  Mecca,  and  that  he,  with  a  handful 
of  adherents,  was  hiding  in  the  desert, 
hunted  like  wild  beasts." 

"True,"    replied    Arsinoe,    "this    is 
his  darkest  hour;  but  one  year  more, 
and  all  will  change,  one  year  more,  and 
Mohammed  will  be  Lord  of  Arabia." 
57 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

"  And  what, "  said  Chosroes  slowly, 
"  has  this  to  do  with  me?" 

"  Much, "  replied  the  sorceress.  "  Chos- 
roes, King  of  Persia,  you  have  done 
much  that  was  great  and  glorious. 
You  have  raised  the  throne  of  Sassan 
to  the  summit  of  earthly  power.  But 
you  have  made  one  mistake  which  will 
outweigh  all.  You  have  torn  the  letter 
of  Mohammed,  and  when  word  of  that 
was  carried  back  to  him  the  prophet 
said :  *  It  is  thus  that  God  will  tear  the 
kingdom  of  Persia,  and  disregard  the 
supplications  of  Chosroes.'" 

Another  year  passed,  and  there  seemed 
to  be  no  change  in  the  general  conditions 
of  life  in  the  palace  of  Artemita.  Chos- 
roes was  still  at  the  height  of  his  glory, 
and  Sira  at  the  height  of  her  beauty, 
though  as  far  as  she  knew  her  age,  she 
was  entering  her  twenty-ninth  year. 
Siroes  her  son,  the  heir  of  Persia,  was 
now  twelve  years  old;  a  strange  child, 
the  disagreeable  traits  of  whose  char- 
acter grew  with  his  age.  For  the  last 
58 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

three  years  Sira  had  neglected  him, 
being  absorbed  with  Ferhad;  but  the 
young  prince  was  not  allowed  to  miss 
her,  for  there  were  too  many  at  his 
father's  court  anxious  to  fill  her  place, 
and  gain  the  influence  that  had  been 
hers.  And  Siroes  now  learned  many- 
lessons  which  afterwards  bore  bitter 
fruit. 

Sira  was  perfectly  happy  in  this 
year,  for  now  Ferhad  seemed  to  have 
no  other  thought  but  her.  The  truth 
was  that  he  had  renounced  the  outside 
world,  because  he  saw  that  the  ani- 
mosity of  Chosroes  barred  for  him 
every  path  to  advancement  there.  He 
loved  Sira,  and  enjoyed  the  luxury  and 
ease  of  his  life ;  and  though  its  monotony 
and  inactivity  were  not  what  he  desired, 
he  had  wisely  determined  to  make  the 
best  of  what  he  had.  And  if  ambition 
was  not  permitted  him,  nor  indepen- 
dence, surely  no  one  in  the  history  of 
the  East  had  been  more  fortunate  in 
love. 

History  relates  that  Sira  was  a  Christ- 
59 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

ian.  Had  her  religion,  then,  no  power 
with  her,  or  had  she,  who  had  both  mind 
and  heart,  no  conscience,  that  she  led 
this  life  of  deception,  without  either 
hesitation  or  regret?  Perhaps  neither. 
Sira  was  a  woman  with  whom  love  is  a 
passion  that  excludes  all  other  thoughts, 
and  to  whom  regret  comes  only  when 
love  is  no  more. 

And  it  is  doubtful  if  her  religion  was 
more  to  her  than  a  name.  In  the 
harem  of  the  King  of  Persia,  she  could 
have  no  chapel,  and  no  priest,  and  not 
even  the  comfort  of  telling  her  beads, 
since  the  rosary  was  not  known,  being 
only  borrowed  from  the  Moslems  during 
the  Crusades. 

She  prayed  perhaps,  but  we  must 
remember  that  she  had  but  little  light. 
The  Christianity  of  the  seventh  century 
was  a  pale  and  cloudy  star,  beside  the 
setting  sun  of  the  great  Persian  religion, 
still  beautiful  and  bright  in  its  decline, 
or  the  new  moon  of  the  Islam  just  rising 
white  and  glorious  in  the  East. 

Thus  the  third  year  of  the  loves  of 
60 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

Ferhad  and  Sira  drew  to  its  close,  which 
always  seemed  a  new  beginning,  since 
their  year  ended  in  the  month  of  May. 
And  this  year  was,  though  they  knew 
it  not,  one  of  the  great  years  of  time. 
The  year  of  the  Hejira! 

With  the  spring  the  war  between 
Rome  and  Persia  broke  forth  again, 
but  this  time  all  was  changed,  and  the 
world  saw  with  amazement  that  Chos- 
roes  was  not  invincible,  and  that  once 
more  a  hero  and  a  genius  was  seated 
on  the  throne  of  Constantine. 

Heraclius  crossed  the  Black  Sea,  made 
his  way  through  the  wild  mountains 
of  Armenia,  and  appeared  suddenly, 
flushed  with  success,  in  the  heart  of 
Persia.  The  Persians,  who  with  the 
Avars  had  threatened  Constantinople 
itself,  were  recalled  to  the  defence  of 
their  own  country.  Chosroes  himself, 
struck  with  an  unexplainable  aversion 
to  trust  to  the  fortunes  of  a  battle, 
retreated  with  forty  thousand  men, 
leaving  to  Heraclius  the  fruits  of 
almost  bloodless  victory,  and  shut 
6i 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

himself  up  once  more  in  Artemita,  while 
the  Romans  encamped  for  the  winter 
at  their  ease  in  the  heart  of  his 
Empire. 

And  while  all  this  was  going  on, 
Mohammed,  with  a  few  followers,  had 
slipped  through  the  hands  of  his 
enemies  and  reached  Medina,  where  he 
was  received  and  established  as  tem- 
poral sovereign  and  Prophet  of  God. 
His  flight  inaugurated  a  new  era  of 
time. 

Chosroes  returned  to  Artemita  in  a 
black  mood,  which  even  the  smiles 
of  Sira  could  not  charm  away.  Sira, 
more  radiant  than  ever,  with  the  joy 
of  days  and  weeks  spent  alone  with  her 
lover.  It  was  the  ninth  of  November. 
Cold  winds  swept  down  from  the 
mountains;  the  sunlight  paled,  and  in 
the  royal  gardens  the  nightingales  were 
silent,  and  the  roses  all  dead. 

The  heart  of  Chosroes  was  very  heavy. 
Many  times  a  day  he  said  to  himself: 
"The  mad  Arab  is  Prince  of  Medina 
62 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

and  Heraclius  sits  in  the  plains  of 
Mogan,  and  has  put  out  the  sacred  fires 
in  the  temples  of  Ormia." 

He  remembered  with  strange  dis- 
tinctness, how  he  had  torn  the  letter 
of  Mohammed,  and  day  and  night  the 
words  of  the  prophecy  rang  in  his 
ears:  "It  is  thus  that  God  will  tear  the 
kingdom  of  Persia,  and  disregard  the 
supplications  of  Chosroes." 

One  dreary  rainy  day,  when  the 
palace  of  Artemita  seemed  cold  and 
dark,  and  the  very  jewels,  which  en- 
crusted the  walls  of  his  cabinet,  ceased 
to  glitter,  Chosroes  had  sent  for  Arsinoe, 
the  Egyptian,  and  sat  amid  dim  splen- 
dours, and  surrounded  by  a  score  of  his 
highest  officers,  in  silence  awaiting 
her  coming.  At  length  the  portiere 
which  closed  the  only  entrance  to  the 
room  was  lifted;  but  instead  of  the 
Egyptian,  there  appeared  a  young  man 
whose  beauty  seemed  to  shed  a  light 
around  him,  and  whose  many  jewels 
glittered  as  the  royal  ones  did  not. 
He  appeared  a  vision  of  sudden  bright- 
63 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

ness  like  a  rising  star  at  twilight.     It 
was  Ferhad. 

In  his  hand  he  held  a  small  roll  of 
parchment  which,  walking  forward  and 
making  a  low  obeisance,  he  presented 
to  the  King.  Chosroes  looked  at  him 
with  a  black  frown,  took  the  roll,  and 
opening  it,  read: 

"Oh,  Shah  in  Shah,  command  not 
my  presence  to-day.  The  stars  are 
unpropitious,  and  I  can  bring  you  no- 
thing but  bad  news. 

"Arsinoe." 

At  this,  the  King  of  Persia  fell  into 
an  unaccountable  rage,  that  rage  which 
seeks  a  victim. 

"Slave,"  he  said  to  Ferhad,  "how 
dare  you  bring  me  such  an  answer?" 

"  Shah  in  Shah, "  replied  Ferhad  with 
perfect  dignity,  "the  answer  is  not 
mine." 

"What,"  cried  Chosroes,  with  that 
injustice  which  he  sometimes  showed, 
"  you  presume  to  bandy  words  with  the 
64 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

King  of  Persia?  I  will  teach  you  that 
a  slave  should  be  silent  in  the  presence 
of  his  Master."  And  drawing  a  dagger 
from  his  belt,  he  struck  Ferhad  with 
the  heavy  jewelled  hilt  across  his  face. 

The  young  Persian  started  back, 
turning  pale  with  a  rage  quite  equal  to 
the  King's.  His  hand  sought  his  own 
dagger,  and  for  an  instant  it  seemed  as 
if  he  would  return  the  insult  he  had 
received  with  death.  But  then  he 
remembered  everything,  and  falling  on 
his  knees,  he  touched  the  carpet  with 
his  forehead,  and  rising,  walked  back- 
wards with  perfect  calmness  out  of  the 
royal  cabinet. 

His  self-control  was  perfect,  but  once 
outside  and  out  of  hearing,  he  stretched 
forth  his  right  hand,  and  called  down 
upon  the  King  of  Persia,  the  great 
Mazda  Yacna  curse.  Nor  did  this 
curse  so  dreaded  by  the  Persians, 
content  the  wounded  pride  and  honour 
of  Ferhad.  He  returned  to  Arsinoe, 
and,  reproaching  her  bitterly  for  having 
sent   him   on   such  an  errand,   related 

5  65 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

his  wrongs  with  a  passion  such  as  he 
had  never  shown  before  and  which 
fairly  surprised  the  Egyptian. 

Arsinoe  told  him  to  have  patience,  to 
I  say  nothing  to  Sira,  and  showed  him 
that  his  only  hope  of  satisfaction  was 
to  await  the  course  of  destiny.  And 
Ferhad  took  her  advice,  but  the  blow 
given  him  by  the  King  of  Persia, 
though  its  marks  soon  left  his  face, 
had  left  a  scar  in  his  heart  and  given 
him  a  new  motive  in  life :  Revenge. 

We  have  already  lingered  too  long 
over  the  love  of  Ferhad  and  Sira; 
but  alas,  the  joys  of  love  and  life  are 
so  rare  that  one  turns  from  them  with 
regret,  even  when  they  are  forbidden 
fruit.  And  the  recollection  (if  indeed 
it  ever  leaves  us)  returns  always  too 
soon,  that  "the  wages  of  sin  is  death." 

Another  winter  passed,  in  which  the 
palace  of  Artemita  seemed  to  sleep, 
and  Ferhad  and  Sira  were  the  only  ones 
who  lived;  and  another  summer,  in 
which  Heraclius  was  everywhere  vic- 
66 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

torious.  In  vain  Chosroes  recalled  his 
forces  from  the  Bosphorus  and  the  Nile. 
Nothing  could  stem  the  tide  of  Roman 
conquest,  and  the  Persians  were  obliged 
to  retreat  before  the  invaders,  as  before 
the  rising  waves  of  a  resistless  sea. 
Chosroes  had  torn  the  letter  of  Mo- 
hammed, and  God  was  tearing  the 
kingdom  of  Persia. 

All  this  time  Ferhad  nursed  his 
revenge  and  rejoiced  in  the  misfortune 
of  Chosroes;  but  more  than  this,  he  had 
a  plan.  He  still  loved  the  favourite  of 
the  King  of  Persia,  and  spent  with  her 
all  the  time  that  she  could  give,  and 
made  her  perfectly  happy,  with  no 
thought  that  there  remained  a  future. 
But  he  had  determined  to  live  for  him- 
self. For  this  end  he  had  engaged  a 
master  to  teach  him  riding  and  the 
use  of  arms;  and  when  he  could  absent 
himself  from  the  palace  without  the 
knowledge  of  Sira  or  Arsinoe,  he  prac- 
tised with  a  new  passion  the  arts  of 
war. 

Another  winter  came  and  went,  and 
67 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

the  return  of  spring  ushered  in  a  third 
campaign.  Chosroes  himself  set  out 
at  the  head  of  his  army  to  meet  Her- 
aclius.  Ferhad  and  Sira  remained  be- 
hind. Sira's  five  years  of  love  and 
happiness  had  made  her  strong  and 
confident.  She  looked  for  no  reverse. 
It  made  no  difference  to  her  which 
conquered,  Rome  or  Persia;  but  she 
loved  the  war  because  it  left  her  alone 
with  Ferhad.  Once  more,  as  years 
before,  they  retired  to  the  pavilion 
in  the  pine  grove,  and  lived  in  a  dream 
of  love,  which  was  to  be  their  last. 

Bad  news  came  from  the  seat  of  war. 
Heraclius  traversed  in  seven  days  the 
mountains  of  Kurdistan,  and  crossed 
the  Tigris  and  then  the  Euphrates. 
The  Persians  retreated  before  him,  and 
made  their  last  stand  on  the  banks  of 
the  Sarus,  a  rapid  river,  three  hundred 
feet  in  breadth,  whose  single  bridge  was 
strongly  fortified.  The  flowers  of  May 
bloomed  in  the  gardens  of  Artemita, 
and  the  nightingales  sang  in  the  pines. 
And  one  day  the  news  was  brought  to 
68 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

Sira  that  the  Romans  had  stormed  the 
bridge  and  crossed  the  river. 

Ferhad  left  her  for  an  hour  or  two 
to  learn  the  news;  and  during  his  absence 
Sira  sent  and  begged  Arsinoe  to  bring 
her  the  flower  of  destiny.  The  flower 
was  brought  and  placed  on  a  little  table 
in  the  room  which  contained  the  pool; 
but  Arsinoe  sent  word  that  she  could 
not  come  until  evening,  and  Sira  sat 
and  looked  in  vain  at  the  purple  bud, 
which  remained  closed  and  impene- 
trable. 

At  length  Ferhad  returned.  He  had 
heard  all,  and  his  resolution  was  taken. 
He  went  to  Sira,  and  took  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her  with  his  wonted 
tenderness,  and  she  clasped  her  arms 
about  his  neck,  and  clung  to  him  as  a 
vine  clings  to  a  palm. 

And  then  he  said  to  her:  "Sira,  the 
time  has  come  when  I  must  leave  you, 
I  have  loved  you,  and  I  love  you  still; 
but  when  I  came  here  I  was  a  boy,  and 
now  I  am  a  man.  I  have  given  you 
my  best  and  most  beautiful  years; 
69 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

but  Sira,  I  have  my  own  life  to 
live." 

Sira  drew  back  and  looked  at  him 
surprised,  but  not  believing  him  in 
earnest. 

"What  life,  would  you  live  without 
me.     You  who  are  my  life?" 

"  I  will  be  a  soldier, "  replied  Ferhad. 

"A  soldier,"  repeated  Sira,  "to  fight 
for  Chosroes?" 

"No,"  cried  Ferhad,  his  long  silent 
passion  bursting  into  flame,  "for 
Heraclius. " 

"Against  the  King  of  Persia!  The 
man  who  has  denied  me  all  chance  of 
advancement,  who  has  insulted  me  and 
struck  me  in  the  face!" 

"  No,  "  exclaimed  Sira,  horror-stricken 
"surely  not  that!" 

"Yes,"  said  Ferhad,  "but  now  my 
hour  has  come.  I  go  to  join  the  army 
of  Heraclius,  where  at  last  I  may  be 
a  man." 

"And  for  that,"  said  Sira,  "you 
would  leave  me!" 

"I  must,"  replied  Ferhad,  and  again 
70 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her, 
and  tried  to  make  her  listen  to  what  he 
thought  reason.  But  Sira  could  not 
listen.  She  tried  first  to  persuade  him 
from  his  purpose,  then  at  least  to  wait. 
In  vain;  Ferhad  was  firm,  he  grew 
impatient.  She  reproached  him,  up- 
braided him  with  his  ingratitude.  Then 
once  more,  sought  to  move  his  pity, 
reminding  him  of  all  their  love  and  all 
their  happy  days.  But  still  in  vain. 
She  appealed  to  him  in  the  words  all 
women  use  who  try  to  hold  their  lovers 
when  they  are  no  longer  to  be  held. 
In  her  despair,  seeing  all  her  efforts 
useless,  she  called  upon  Christ  and  His 
Mother  to  help  her, — Christ  and  His 
Mother,  whom  she  had  forgotten  for  so 
long. 

But  no  divine  assistance  came  to 
her.  Heaven  was  silent.  Ferhad  grew 
angry.  He  replied  to  her;  but  not  in 
words  of  love.  He  showed  liimself 
selfish,  cruel,  and  unmindful  of  the  past. 
He  had  had  the  love  of  Sira,  Sira  the 
most  beautiful  and  brilliant  woman  of 
71 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

the  Persian  Empire;  that  love  which 
Chosroes,  the  Shah  in  Shah  had  to  win. 
And  now  that  he  wanted  it  no  longer, 
he  flung  it  aside  as  lightly  as  though  it 
were  the  fancy  of  a  dancing  girl.  He 
had  had  the  love,  the  jewels,  the  money, 
and  now  he  wanted  something  else 
instead. 

In  a  last  access  of  despair,  she  clung 
to  him  as  if  force  could  hold  him  where 
persuasion  failed.  But  Ferhad  was 
tired  of  the  scene,  and  with  a  sudden 
brutality  he  unclasped  her  arms,  and 
flung  her  from  him  with  such  violence 
that  she  staggered  back  against  the 
table  on  which  stood  the  flower  of 
destiny,  and  overturned  it  on  the  floor. 
The  jade  vase  fell  with  a  crash  and 
splintered  into  fragments,  and  the  pur- 
ple flower  opening  of  itself,  threw  forth 
the  magic  crystal  which  broke  into  a 
thousand  dewdrops  and  fell  sparkling 
on  the  alabaster  pavement  like  a  shower 
of  tears. 

They  both  stood  and  looked  in  horror 
at  the  ruin.  Ferhad,  in  superstitious 
72 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

dread,  and  Sira  with  the  sudden  memory 
that  when  she  had  looked  into  the 
crystal  she  had  seen  all  her  life  before 
the  image  of  Ferhad,  and  nothing 
afterwards.  And  she  knew  that  this 
was  the  end  of  everything. 

"  Ferhad,"  she  said,  with  the  calmness 
of  despair,  "  I  have  loved  you  too  much." 

It  was  the  truth,  and  perhaps  for 
that  reason  Ferhad  was  moved  to 
momentary  pity.  Once  more  he  came 
to  her,  and  took  her  in  his  arms,  and 
kissed  her,  for  the  last  time.  Then, 
feeling  that  if  he  lingered,  his  resolution 
would  be  shaken,  he  tore  himself  from 
her  and  walked,  without  another  look, 
towards  the  door. 

Sira  took  one  step  after  him.  "  Fer- 
had,"  she  said,  "oh,  do  not  leave  me 
Ferhad!     Ferhad!" 

But  he  did  not  answer.  The  por- 
tiere dropped  behind  him,  and  Sira  fell 
with  outstretched  arms  face  downwards 
on  the  pavement  among  the  tears  of 
destiny. 

Hours  passed.     The  sun  set,  and  the 

73 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

spring  night  came  down  as  softly  as  a 
bridal  veil.  One  by  one  the  stars  came 
out  in  the  deep  blue  and  the  nightin- 
gales sang  in  the  pines,  but  there  was 
no  moon.  Sira  still  lay  where  she  had 
fallen,  her  face  pressed  against  the 
alabaster  pavement.  She  was  not  dead 
or  even  unconscious,  but  her  heart  was 
broken.  Midnight  drew  near,  and  at 
last  the  silence  was  stirred  by  a  footstep 
which  crossed  the  ante-chamber.  The 
portiere  was  lifted,  and  a  woman  en- 
tered, holding  a  lamp  above  her  head. 
It  was  Arsinoe. 

The  light  fell  upon  Sira,  and  upon 
the  broken  flower  of  destiny,  the  green 
splinters  of  jade  and  the  tears  which 
still  sparkled,  each  one  round  and 
perfect  on  the  shining  alabaster. 

Arsinoe  drew  back  in  horror.  "  Sira," 
she  cried,  "what  has  happened,  what 
means  all  this?" 

Sira  raised  herself  slowly  on  one 
elbow.  "  Ferhad  has  left  me, "  she 
said. 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  she 
74 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

went  on,  "  I  have  loved  him  too  much. 
If  he  was  angry  with  me  or  out  of 
humour,  it  was  I  who  begged  his  for- 
giveness. I  lived  only  to  please  him. 
I  threw  myself  at  his  feet.  I  gave  him 
jewels,  money,  everything  that  his 
heart  desired.  For  him  I  was  untrue 
to  Chosroes.  For  him  I  forgot  my 
child,  and  now,  now,  Arsinoe,  you  know 
everything.  Did  you  know  that  it 
would  end  like  this?" 

"  Yes, "  replied  Arsinoe,  "  but  you 
told  me  Sira  that  if  you  could  taste  of 
love  and  happiness,  you  would  not 
complain  of  anything  that  might  come 
afterwards.  You  have  had  your  heart's 
desire,  and  it  has  lasted  five  years.  Sira, 
I  have  lived  long,  and  I  know  that 
woman  is  not  born  for  happiness.  You 
have  had  more  than  your  share." 

Sira  raised  herself  to  a  sitting  posture, 
and  looked  in  silence  at  the  Egyptian. 
"Arsinoe,"  she  said  at  last,  "must  I 
live?  Is  there  anything  more  in  life 
forme?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Egyptian,  "I 
75 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

came  to  tell  you  that  Chosroes  has  re- 
turned with  the  remnant  of  his  army. 
Heraclius  is  close  behind  him,  and  he 
cannot  stay  at  Artemita. " 

"Chosroes  at  Artemita,  and  he  has 
not  sent  for  me. " 

"  No,  he  has  shut  himself  in  his 
cabinet,  and  sits  there  alone." 

Sira  remained  silent  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, a  struggle  going  on  in  her 
heart,  as  between  life  and  death.  Then 
she  rose  pale  as  the  moonless  night  but 
fixed  in  her  resolution. 

"  I  will  go  to  him, "  she  said. 

"  I  will  go  with  you, "  replied  Arsinoe, 
and  they  left  the  pavilion  together. 

Chosroes  sat  alone  in  his  cabinet, 
whose  walls  gleamed  with  gold  and 
jewels.  Midnight  was  past,  and  the 
lamps  flickered  and  burned  pale,  but 
the  great  King  thought  not  of  sleep. 

The  darkest  hour  was  come.  The 
strange  flower  which  had  held  the  for- 
tunes of  the  house  of  Sassan  lay  shat- 
tered in  the  pavilion  among  the  pines, 
and  Mohammed  was  avenged.  The 
76 


The  Flower  of  Destiny 

portiere  was  lifted,  and  two  women 
entered,  Arsinoe  and  Sira.  The  latter 
went  to  him,  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  and  only  then  the  Shah 
in  Shah  looked  up. 

"Why  have  you  come  to  me?"  he 
asked,  "  all  is  lost.  God  has  torn  the 
kingdom  of  Persia.  Chosroes  sits  to- 
night in  Artemita;  Heraclius  will  sit 
here  to-morrow. " 

"  I  have  come, "  answered  Sira,  "  to 
go  with  you  once  more  into  exile!"  ^ 

>  See  Appendix  I. 


77 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 


79 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  FATIMITES 

IT  was  early  spring  in  the  land  of 
Egypt  in  the  year  1171.  The  Nile 
was  low,  the  air  soft  and  sweet,  and  in 
the  history  of  the  country  there  was 
that  hush,  which  is  the  prelude  of  great 
events,  a  dimness  and  uncertainty  like 
that  of  the  dawn  which  follows  the  night 
and  precedes  the  rising  sun. 

Egypt  had  once  more  been  conquered. 
This  time  by  the  great  Turkish  Sultan 
(of  his  dynasty  the  first  and  last) 
Noureddin  the  Just.  The  Franks  had 
been  driven  from  the  country  and  were 
making  a  last  feeble  and  wavering 
stand  in  their  kingdom  of  Jerusalem, 
which  was  soon  to  return  to  the  sceptre 
of  its  natural  Lord,  the  Turk. 

The  blood  and  treasure  spent  in  the 
First  Crusades  had  been  shed  and  wasted 
all  in  vain.     In  a  few  years  more  the 

6  81 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

last  Frank  would  be  driven  from  Pales- 
tine, and  only  through  the  pity  and 
magnanimity  of  the  Sultan,  would  the 
pilgrims  continue  to  visit  the  Holy 
Sepulchre,  which,  since  the  Christians 
had  proved  themselves  unworthy  to  be 
its  guardians,  it  would  please  God  to 
give  back  to  Islam. 

In  Egypt  the  last  Fatimite  Khalif, 
Adhed,  had  expired  in  his  palace  in 
Cairo,  silently  and  unheeded  by  the 
world,  as  he  had  lived.  The  green 
livery  of  the  house  of  AH  was  changed 
for  the  black  of  the  Abbassides;  the 
Khalif  Mosthadi  of  Bagdad  was  ac- 
knowledged as  the  true  commander 
of  the  faithful,  and  the  Emir  Shiracouh 
governed  Egypt  in  the  name  of  Nou 
reddin,  unconsciously,  awaiting  the  hero, 
who  was  to  succeed  them  both,  and  to 
unite  under  his  sceptre  the  realms  of 
Egypt,  Arabia,  Syria,  and  Palestine. 

The  Emir  Ali  Amr  governor  of  Upper 

Egypt   from    the    first   to    the    second 

cataract  and  related  to  the  Fatimites, 

through  the  female  line,  had  remained 

82 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

(being  a  powerful  favourite  with  the 
Egyptians  themselves,  and  to  that 
perhaps  owing  the  Sultan's  grace)  in 
his  position  under  the  beginning  of 
Turkish  rule.  At  the  death  of  the 
Khalif  he  had  been  summoned  to 
Cairo,  but  so  far  from  any  evil  awaiting 
him  there,  he  had  been  received  with 
open  arms  by  Shiracouh,  confirmed  in 
his  office,  and  was  now  returning, 
loaded  with  presents  and  assurances 
of  friendship,  to  the  seat  of  his  govern- 
ment at  Assouan. 

For  several  days  he  had  been  looked 
for,  and  the  Princess  Rikaiya,  his  wife, 
had  sat  in  the  latticed  bow  of  her  western 
window,  watching  for  the  first  glimpse 
of  his  boat  upon  the  Nile.  The  Princess 
Rikaiya  was  the  daughter  of  the  Sultan 
of  Yemen.  A  little  more  than  three 
years  ago,  the  Emir  Ali  Amr  had  been 
sent  to  that  country  as  the  Khalif  s 
Ambassador,  and  had  brought  her  back, 
then  a  girl  of  thirteen,  as  his  bride. 

Ali  Amr  himself,  in  the  flower  of  youth, 
though  perhaps  ten  years  older  than  his 
83 


The  Last  of  the  Fatlmites 

wife,  had  attained  that  early  eminence 
so  common  in  the  East,  where  nothing 
is  beyond  the  hope  and  fire  of  youth; 
handsome  in  his  person  and  royal  in 
his  bearing  as  in  his  birth,  the  Arab 
Princess  had  given  him  from  the  first 
not  her  hand  only  but  her  heart. 

He  had  loved  her  also  with  all  the 
passion  of  his  race  for  she  was  beautiful 
with  that  dark  noble  beauty  of  the  pure 
Arab  blood.  The  long  black  eyes, 
red  pomegranate  lips,  the  high-bred 
features,  and  the  wealth  of  jet  black 
hair,  slender  and  graceful  and  thorough- 
bred, she  needed  no  diadem  to  prove 
herself  a  princess. 

No  children  had  been  given  them, 
but  this  was  less  felt  by  the  Emir,  since 
he  had  by  a  former  wife,  who  had  given 
her  life  for  his,  a  son  now  six  years  old ; 
and  the  marriage  was  as  ideally  happy 
as  any  which  the  Oriental  poets  have 
sung. 

The  Princess  Rikaiya  sat  watching 
in  her  window,  robed  in  rich  garments, 
bright  hued  and  embroidered  in  gold 
84 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

and  glittering  with  jewels,  diamonds, 
rubies,  and  pearls.  She  was  hourly 
expecting  her  husband,  and  would  meet 
him  once  more  like  a  bride.  At  her 
feet  sat  her  two  favourite  slaves,  two 
Arab  girls,  whom  she  had  brought 
with  her  from  Yemen,  and  who  were 
her  constant  companions;  Amina  and 
Fatima.  Amina  held  a  lute  and  Fatima 
a  tambourine;  but  both  were  silent, 
for  the  Princess  did  not  listen  to  their 
music,  but  only  gazed  out  of  the  window 
and  down  the  river. 

The  room  in  which  they  sat  was  gayly 
painted  and  gilded  in  arabesques;  five 
enamelled  glass  lanterns  hung  from  the 
ceiling  by  gilded  chains,  and  the  usual 
Oriental  furniture  of  rugs  and  cushions 
was  supplemented  by  an  inlaid  table  and 
two  low  chairs  of  Greek  workmanship. 

Suddenly  the  Princess  uttered  a  cry, 
and,  forgetting  everything  else  in  the 
excitement  of  the  moment,  she  threw 
open  the  lattice  and  leaned  out. 

"A  sail!  A  sail!  The  Emir's  boat!" 
The  setting  sun  glanced  on  the  diamonds 
8S 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

of  her  tiara,  kissed  her  rose-hued  cheek, 
and  warmed  the  whiteness  of  her  bosom, 
and  the  crimson  of  her  vest.  But  for 
a  moment;  then  she  closed  her  lattice 
remembering  herself  a  Princess,  and  sat 
still  to  wait  her  Lord's  return. 

The  time  passed  slowly,  and  ere  the 
noise  and  bustle  in  the  courtyard  an- 
nounced the  return  of  the  Emir,  evening 
had  fallen  and  the  lamps  were  lit.  Then 
the  Princess  rose  and,  followed  by  her 
attendants,  passed  into  the  first  salon 
of  the  harem  to  meet  her  husband. 

Nor  had  she  long  to  wait;  the  portiere 
was  lifted  and  preceded  by  half  a  dozen 
eunuchs,  all  jet  black  and  in  the  richest 
attire,  the  Emir  Ali  Amr  once  more 
entered  the  sanctuary  of  his  home. 
With  a  rustling  of  soft  garments  and  a 
silence  of  bare  feet,  the  other  women 
slaves  had  crowded  into  the  room, 
and  as  the  Fatimite  Prince  crossed  the 
threshold,  tall  and  handsome,  the  royal 
aigrette  glittering  in  his  turban  and  the 
jewelled  sword  hanging  by  his  side,  they 
all  fell  upon  their  knees  and  saluted 
86 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

him  by  touching  their  foreheads  to  the 
ground. 

But  his  wife  Rikaiya,  the  daughter 
of  a  Sultan,  stood  erect,  looked  at  him 
for  one  moment  in  silence,  her  soul  in 
her  eyes,  and  then  threw  herself  into 
his  arms.  The  Emir  pressed  her  to  his 
heart  and  kissed  her  with  a  rapture 
which  seemed  to  equal  hers  and,  then 
releasing  her  said  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand  towards  the  eunuchs,  who  bore 
varied  boxes  and  caskets,  "  Princess,  I 
lay  at  your  feet  the  treasures  given  me 
by  Shiracouh." 

Rikaiya  looked  on  one  side  and  the 
other,  and  saw  for  the  first  time  behind 
her  husband  two  female  figures.  One 
a  negress  gaudy  with  shells  and  beads 
and  silver  trinkets  over  her  dark 
Egyptian  dress,  and  the  other  still 
covered  with  a  veil  which  she  was 
beginning  to  unwind. 

"Who  are  these?"  she  asked. 

"Slaves,"  replied  the  Emir,  "given 
me  by  Shiracouh."  And  in  spite  of  her- 
self, the  Princess  fancied  a  tone  that 
87 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

was  strange  in  his  voice.  At  that 
moment,  the  new  slave  unwound  herself 
and  her  veil  fell  off  and  left  her  hair 
uncovered  in  the  full  light  of  the  lamps. 
The  Princess  gazed  at  her  in  wonder; 
never  before  had  she  seen  a  creature 
of  her  like.  Reared  in  Arabia  and  from 
there  transported  to  the  Nile,  she  knew 
only  the  black  eyes  and  black  locks  of 
the  Orient;  and  now  she  saw  hair  like 
spun  gold  that  glittered  and  rippled  and 
fell  in  a  bright  disorder  like  the  cataract 
itself.  She  beheld  a  skin  so  white  that 
beside  it  her  own  cream  tint  seemed 
dark,  cheeks  like  twin  roses,  and  eyes 
not  black  or  brown  like  all  other  eyes, 
but  blue,  blue  as  the  sea. 

Jealousy  was  a  sentiment  unknown 
to  Rikaiya;  she  had  had  no  rival. 
"My  Lord!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  have 
brought  home  a  peri!" 

The  Emir  smiled.  "  No, "  he  said, 
"only  a  woman;  but  from  that  country 
whence  the  Turks  have  learned  to  cull 
the  flowers,  Circassia!  Tchagane,  Sa- 
lute the  Princess  Rikaiya!" 
88 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

The  slave  came  forward,  knelt  before 
her  new  mistress,  and  kissed  her  hand. 
Rikaiya's  eyes  were  bent  in  wonder 
on  her  golden  hair,  when  suddenly  the 
slave  looked  up.  Their  eyes  met,  and 
the  Princess  recoiled  in  something  that 
was  almost  terror.  All  the  devils  of 
Eblis  laughed  in  Tchagane's  smile! 

Perhaps  the  Emir  had  noticed  his 
wife's  expression,  for  his  brow  con- 
tracted in  a  frown.  Turning  to  the 
chief  of  his  eunuchs,  he  bade  him  take 
charge  of  the  new  slaves,  and  then 
gave  his  hand  to  the  Princess  to  lead 
her  into  the  inner  apartments. 

Rikaiya  looked  at  him  and  smiled,  a 
smile  of  perfect  happiness;  the  slave's 
look  was  already  forgotten  in  the  joy 
of  her  husband's  return.  But  Tchagane 
started  forward,  her  arms  folded  on  her 
breast,  and  boldly  addressed  the  Emir. 
"  Does  my  Lord  not  need  me  to  pour 
his  sherbet?"  — 

"No,"  replied  Ali  Amr,  "not  to- 
night." And  turning  from  her  without 
another  glance  he  led  Rikaiya  through 
89 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

the  long  row  of  apartments,  followed 
by  Amina  and  Fatima. 

Tchagane  looked  after  them  for  a 
moment,  and  then  turning  to  the  chief 
eunuch,  "and  I,  where  am  I  to  lodge, 
since  the  Emir  does  not  need  me  to- 
night?" 

"With  the  other  slaves,"  replied 
Hassan,  whom  her  manner  did  not 
please,  "and  have  a  care  that  you  are 
not  too  forward,  or  I  will  teach  you  that 
silence  and  obedience  are  the  most  im- 
portant virtues  for  a  slave. "  Tchagane's 
eyes  flashed  fire;  but  she  remembered 
that  she  was  a  slave,  and  said  nothing 
more.  The  other  women  crowded 
around  her,  and  examined  her  attire, 
fingered  her  trinkets  and  her  hair,  and 
rubbed  her  cheeks  and  forehead  to  find 
out  if  the  pink  and  white  came  off. 
Tchagane  supported  the  ordeal  with 
apparent  patience,  and  at  length  even 
their  Oriental  curiosity  was  satisfied, 
and  they  led  her  gaily  off  to  supper. 

That  evening  the  Emir  remained 
alone  with  his  wife.  The  slaves  were 
90 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

not  called  to  dance  or  sing;  and  after 
Amina  and  Fatima  had  served  the  sup- 
per, they  also  were  dismissed  and  re- 
joined the  others. 

The  next  day  Ali  Amr  held  his  divan, 
and  all  the  cases  for  justice  which  had 
arisen  in  his  absence  were  brought 
before  him.  Oriental  deliberations  and 
decisions  are  naturally  slow,  and  the 
sun  was  sinking  behind  the  mountains 
of  the  Libyan  desert  when  he  re-entered 
his  harem. 

Again  Rikaiya  came  to  meet  him 
followed  by  all  her  slaves,  the  Cir- 
cassian this  time  among  the  rest.  And 
again  the  Emir  retired  with  her  into 
the  inner  apartments,  and  they  were 
served  and  attended  again  by  Amina 
and  Fatima  only.  But  after  supper  an 
hour  or  so,  Hassan  was  called,  and 
brought  back  the  Emir's  command  for 
the  slaves  to  array  themselves  and  sing 
and  dance.  

Hastily  all  were  prepared,  and  the 
slaves,  some  thirty  in  number,  all  in 
their  brightest  raiment  of  gold- 
91 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

embroidered  jackets,  spangled  turbans, 
and  trousers  of  bright-hued  brocade, 
and  loaded  with  necklaces,  bracelets  and 
earrings  of  gold  and  silver,  coral  and 
amber,  entered  the  great  salon  of  the 
harem. 

This  apartment  was  high  and  vaulted, 
and  painted  entirely,  walls  and  ceiling, 
in  arabesques  on  a  green  ground.  A 
row  of  gilded  columns  ran  around  three 
sides  of  it  supporting  a  narrow  gallery, 
and  the  fourth  side  was  raised  three 
steps  and  spread  with  Persian  rugs, 
thus  forming  a  divan.  And  here,  lean- 
ing against  piles  of  embroidered  cushions, 
sat  the  Emir  and  the  Princess  under  a 
canopy  of  crimson  and  gold. 

The  eunuchs  with  lutes,  tambourines, 
and  bottle  drums,  mounted  to  the 
gallery  and  began  playing  an  Arabic 
air,  such  as  was  heard  in  Mecca  ere 
the  birth  of  Mohammed,  and  is  still 
heard  wherever  the  music  of  Arabia  is 
known,  monotonous  and  tinged  with 
melancholy,  but  wild  and  sweet.  The 
slaves  ranged  themselves  in  rows,  un- 
92 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

wound  their  scarfs,  clicked  their  castinets 
and  the  dance  began. 

The  ceiling  of  the  apartment  was  too 
high  for  hanging  lamps,  but  to  every 
column  was  fixed  a  silver  sconce  filled 
with  wax  candles,  which  cast  a  soft  and 
brilliant  light  upon  the  scene. 

The  women  were  all  natives  of  Africa, 
Egyptians,  Nubians,  and  Abyssinians. 
All  had  black  eyes  and  hair;  but  their 
complexions  varied  from  the  cream  and 
roses  of  the  Delta  to  the  bronze  and 
copper  of  Nubia  and  the  mountains 
of  the  moon.  Their  beauty  varied, 
but  all  were  pleasing,  and  none  lacked 
that  grace  which  is  the  immemorial 
gift  of  the  daughters  of  the  Nile.  And 
as  they  danced  together,  with  their 
glitter  of  spangles  and  their  glory  of 
crimson  and  purple  and  pink,  they 
seemed  like  a  bed  of  tropical  flowers 
swayed  by  the  wind. 

Amina  and  Fatima  did  not  dance 
with  the  others;  but  sat  on  the  steps 
of  the  divan.  Only  the  two  new  in- 
mates of  the  harem  were  missing,  and 
93 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

suddenly  the  Princess  turning  to  Hassan 
asked:  "Where  are  the  negress  and 
the  Circassian?" 

Hassan  hurried  out  of  the  room  to 
seek  them ;  but  when  he  re-entered  with 
the  "  gifts  of  Shiracouh, "  the  dance  was 
ended,  and  the  women  leaned  against 
the  columns  to  rest  while  Amina  and 
Fatima  danced  alone.  The  negress, 
who  carried  a  lute,  came  forward  and 
seated  herself  on  the  floor  against  a 
column;  but  Tchagane  remained  stand- 
ing under  the  gallery,  and  one  could 
only  see  that  she  was  muffled  in  a  long 
dark  shawl. 

The  Princess  loved  to  see  her  favour- 
ites dance,  her  cheeks  flushed  and  her 
eyes  sparkled  as  she  looked  at  them. 
The  land  of  the  Nile  had  put  forth  all  its 
charms  and  graces  in  the  dance  of  the 
other  slaves;  but  the  dance  of  Fatima 
and  Amina  showed  the  greater  and  more 
subtle  grace  and  charm  or  her  own 
Arabia. 

Tchagane  looked  at  the  Princess, 
beautiful  and  noble  as  she  sat  there 
94 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

beside  her  husband,  proud  and  happy, 
glittering  with  jewels,  the  daughter  of 
a  Sultan  and  the  wife  of  an  Emir. 

Very  different  had  been  her  lot  in 
life;  bom  and  bred  in  wild  freedom 
among  the  mountains  of  Circassia. 
Torn  from  her  home  at  the  age  of 
twelve,  the  troublous  times  had  granted 
her  no  resting  place.  She  had  been 
sold  in  the  markets  of  Smyrna,  Damas- 
cus, Broussa,  and  Cairo,  and  already 
at  the  age  of  eighteen  she  was  the  slave 
of  her  seventh  master.  She  had  been 
loved  and  cast  aside,  and  loved  again. 
Each  year  a  change  of  scene  and  a  new 
lover  from  the  Black  Sea  to  the  Nile. 
She  had  known  both  blows  and  kisses. 
But  in  this  strange  life,  her  beauty  and 
her  wit  had  both  grown  brighter,  and 
she  had  learned  many  things  which 
made  her  able  to  hold  her  own.  She 
was  sure  of  herself,  and  as  she  looked 
at  the  Princess  she  smiled. 

The  Arab  girls  stopped  dancing; 
Hassan  beckoned  to  Tchagane,  and, 
advancing  to  the  middle  of  the  hall, 
95 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

she  threw  aside  her  shawl  and  stood 
revealed  in  a  costume  as  strange  to  the 
Nile  as  she  was  herself. 

Contrary  to  Oriental  custom,  her 
shoulders  and  arms  were  bare  and 
dazzling  as  alabaster.  A  garment  like 
an  old  Greek  tunic  of  black  gauze  shot 
with  silver  threads  veiled,  but  did  not 
hide,  the  whiteness  of  her  skin  and  a 
Damascus  shawl  of  pink,  striped  with 
gold,  was  draped  around  her  hips  and 
fell  to  her  ankles.  Her  feet  were  bare 
but  she  wore  golden  anklets,  and  broad 
gold  bracelets  were  clasped  high  up  her 
arms.  A  purple  velvet  cap  embroidered 
in  pearls  replaced  the  Oriental  turban, 
and  her  golden  hair  was  bound  with 
strings  of  pearls. 

The  musicians  in  the  gallery  were 
silent,  but  the  negress  with  the  lute 
began  to  play  a  wild  Circassian  air,  and 
Tchagane  began  to  dance.  Not  the 
still  swaying,  dance  of  the  Orient,  in 
which  the  feet  have  the  least  play  of  all, 
but  a  real  dance,  full  of  life  and  motion. 
A  dance  of  tossing  arms  and  whirling 
96 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

feet  such  as  one  finds  to-day  in  the 
Caucasus  and  along  the  shores  of  the 
Black  Sea.  The  other  slaves  looked  on 
in  wonder;  the  Princess  bent  forward 
with  interest  and  surprise  in  her  velvet 
eyes;  the  Emir  remained  motionless 
and  silent,  but  his  eyes  were  riveted 
upon  Tchagane  with  an  expression  which 
no  other  dancer  had  ever  called  forth. 

Wilder  and  more  exciting  grew  the 
melody,  and  quicker  and  more  full  of 
fire  the  dance.  Tchagane  threw  herself 
from  one  posture  into  another  with  the 
wild  grace  of  a  creature  untamed.  Her 
cheeks  glowed,  her  eyes  shone  like 
stars,  and  she  seemed  to  abandon  herself 
heart  and  soul  to  the  passion  of  the 
dance. 

Suddenly  the  Princess  turned  her 
eyes  from  the  dancer  to  her  husband, 
and  at  his  look,  her  heart  was  filled 
with  a  new  and  unknown  fear.  Ali 
Amr  did  not  even  see  her;  his  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  Tchagane,  and  he  had  for- 
gotten everything  else.  The  Princess 
sank  back  among  her  cushions,  and  the 
7  97 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

negress  drawing  her  thumb  across  the 
strings,  ended  the  tune  with  a  wild 
crash  of  notes,  and  Tchagane  stood  still. 

Silence  reigned  in  the  hall.  The  slaves 
waited  for  their  mistress  to  applaud, 
but  she  did  not.  All  were  surprised, 
but  none  dared  move  or  speak. 

Tchagane  herself  took  the  initiative, 
first  making  a  low  obeisance  to  the 
Emir  and  his  wife,  she  then,  with  un- 
heard of  effrontery,  threw  her  shawl 
around  her,  and  quitted  the  apartment 
without  either  asking  permission  or 
being  dismissed. 

"Turkish  insolence,"  said  the  Prin- 
cess, "and  a  Turkish  dance.  I  had 
heard  that  the  Turks  were  barbarians, 
though  they  profess  our  faith.  Their 
slaves  are  like  themselves." 

Ali  Amr  did  not  even  answer,  but 
like  a  man  under  a  spell  he  rose  and  left 
the  hall  by  the  door  by  which  Tchagane 
had  made  her  exit.  The  Circassian  was 
waiting  for  him  in  the  corridor,  and 
with  a  cry  of  joy  she  threw  herself  into 
his  arms.  The  Emir  clasped  her  to  his 
98 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

heart  and  kissed  her.  "  Tchagane, " 
he  said,  "  how  have  I  lived  without  you 
even  for  a  day.     It  shall  not  be  again. " 

The  Princess,  taking  no  notice  of  the 
Emir's  sudden  departure,  called  two 
Nubian  girls  to  dance.  Then  two  Egyp- 
tians took  their  places.  Then  Amina 
and  Fatima  would  have  danced  again, 
but  Rikaiya  bid  them  not,  and  rising 
from  the  divan  retired  to  her  own 
apartments. 

The  favourites  followed  her  and  the 
others  waited  for  a  while  the  return  of 
the  Emir.  But  in  vain;  he  did  not 
come,  and  Hassan  at  length  put  out 
the  lights,  and  the  harem  was  given 
over  to  silence  and  sleep. 

The  next  day  the  Emir  spent  again 
in  the  divan,  supped  with  the  Princess, 
and  retired  to  the  Salamlik  immediately 
afterwards,  saying  that  he  had  letters 
to  dictate  to  his  secretary.  But  the 
letters  were  never  written,  for  Hassan, 
not  the  secretary,  was  summoned  and 
received  the  order  to  bring  Tchagane 
to  the  Emir  and  also  a  flacon  of  that 
99 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

sherbet  which  the  Emir  had  brought 
back  from  Cairo  in  the  little  casks  which 
had  come  from  Greece. 

Tchagane  and  the  sherbet  were 
brought,  and  later  a  second  flacon  was 
called  for,  and  the  negress  with  her 
lute  was  summoned  that  Tchagane 
might  dance,  this  time  for  the  Emir 
alone.  But  AH  Amr  reappeared  in 
his  harem  that  night  no  more. 

A  week  passed,  and  every  day  was 
like  the  other.  The  Emir  appeared 
in  the  harem  at  noon,  and  partook  of 
the  mid-day  meal  with  the  Princess, 
his  wife,  played  for  a  few  moments  with 
the  little  Abdul,  his  son,  and  then  with- 
drew, returning  again  for  supper  and 
then  bidding  the  Princess  good-night. 
Business  was  always  the  pretext  for 
his  absence.  Rikaiya  knew  it  was  a 
pretext  only,  but  she  was  too  proud  to 
reproach  him  with  his  deceit,  or  even 
to  let  him  know  that  she  understood. 
That  deceit  in  itself  was  a  tribute  to 
her.  An  Oriental  is  the  master  of  his 
own  house,  and  if  a  slave  touches  his 

lOO 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

fancy  the  indulgence  of  that  fancy  is 
his  undisputed  right.  But  it  was  a 
tribute  which  Rikaiya  did  not  value, 
her  nature  was  too  noble  to  stoop  to 
deceit  of  any  kind,  and  she  would 
rather  he  had  told  her  the  truth. 

She  was  too  proud  to  show  either  to 
her  husband  or  to  her  slaves  what  she 
thought  or  felt,  but  this  self-repression 
only  caused  her  to  suffer  more.  She 
had  been  so  happy.  Her  husband  had 
been  everything  to  her  and  she  to  him. 
He  had  thought  of  no  other  woman, 
looked  at  none  but  her.  He  had  said 
that  he  would  take  no  other  wife,  and 
she  had  never  thought  that  she  would 
be  deserted  for  a  slave.  What  power 
was  it?  What  charm  that  this  woman 
possessed?  Was  it  her  golden  hair  that 
had  caught  him  in  its  meshes,  or  was 
it  the  art  with  which  she  danced,  or 
was  it  her  devil's  smile? 

Only  at  night  when  she  was  alone 
Rikaiya  gave  way  to  her  feelings  and 
then  indeed  she  wept.  At  first  Amina 
and   Fatima  dared  not  speak  to   her, 

lOI 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

but  after  three  or  four  days  they  began 
to  talk,  and  though  her  pride  would 
not  let  her  answer,  she  listened  to  them. 
The  whole  harem  was  against  the  new- 
comer they  said,  the  "Turkish  devil" 
as  they  called  her,  for  they  knew  nothing 
of  Circassia  and  her  name  was  strange 
and  barbarous  in  their  ears.  She  had 
bewitched  their  master,  they  were  all 
sure  of  that,  and  they  all  knew  besides 
that  the  sherbet,  which  she  alone  knew 
how  to  pour  for  him,  was  no  sherbet, 
but  Greek  wine,  which  she  had  taught 
him  to  drink,  the  "Turkish  devil!" 

Sometimes  Rikaiya  wondered  if  her 
husband's  passion,  for  she  could  call 
it  nothing  less,  for  the  Circassian,  would 
last?  And  if  it  did  not,  she  asked  her- 
self, would  he  return  to  her  and  love 
her  as  he  had  done  before,  and  could 
she  forget?  Could  her  love  for  him  be 
the  same,  and  could  she  ever  be  happy 
as  she  had  been  again  ? 

Every  morning  when  she  looked  first 
from  her  window  and  saw  the  deep 
perfect  blue  of  the  sky,   the  majestic 

I02 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

sand  mountains  glittering  in  the  sun- 
shine, gold  and  silver,  purple  and  pink, 
and  the  Nile  gliding  between  the  palm 
groves  and  the  fields  green  as  a  pavement 
of  emerald,  another  long,  bright  emerald 
clasped  in  its  embrace,  the  island  of 
Elephantine,  her  heart  was  filled  with 
hope. 

But  as  the  day  wore  through  its 
long  bright  dulness,  that  hope  declined. 
When  the  Emir  came  to  sup  with  her 
she  was  silent  and  depressed  and  could 
not  feign  a  gayety  she  did  not  feel,  and 
when  each  time  he  rose  and  bade  her  a 
good-night,  hope  died  in  her  heart  like  a 
light  blown  out.  Then  she  would  have 
her  Arab  girls  bring  their  lutes  and  sing 
their  sad  wild  Arab  airs,  which  filled 
her  eyes  with  tears,  and  she  would  say 
to  herself:  "My  good  days  are  gone,  and 
will  not  return.  I  will  never  be  happy 
again ;  he  loves  me  and  will  love  me  no 
more. " 

At  noon  on  the  eighth  day  when  the 
Emir  entered  his  wife's  apartment,  he 
seemed  animated  by  some  new  and  happy 
103 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

idea.  The  Princess  asked  no  questions, 
but  the  secret  was  soon  revealed. 

"To-night,"  said  the  Emir,  "is  the 
full  moon,  and  being  now  somewhat  at 
leisure,  I  have  thought  that  we  would 
go  and  sup  at  the  island  of  Philae. " 
The  Princess  assented  to  the  plan  with 
something  like  a  flush  of  hope.  Often 
before  had  they  made  picnics  to  the 
beautiful  island,  and  many  had  been 
the  happy  hours  which  she  had  spent 
in  the  Temple  of  I  sis. 

Preparations  for  the  party  were  com- 
pleted as  hastily  as  anything  can  be 
done  in  the  Orient,  and  in  the  cool  of 
the  afternoon,  the  little  caravan  set 
out  from  the  palace,  ambling  first 
through  the  bazaars  of  Assouan,  and 
then  riding  up  the  right  bank  of  the 
Nile.  First  rode  the  Emir,  mounted  on 
an  Arabian  mare  of  the  purest  breed  and 
surrounded  by  his  Lieutenant  and  a 
dozen  soldiers  of  his  guard;  and  then 
came  the  Princess  Rikaiya  with  Amina 
and  Fatima.  There  followed  Tchagane, 
the  negress,  and  four  other  slaves,  all 
104 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

riding  asses  and  muffled  from  head  to 
foot  in  black  mantles  and  veils,  undis- 
tinguishable  one  from  the  other.  And 
last  of  all  rode  Hassan  and  two  other 
eunuchs,  who  with  two  pack  mules 
brought  up  the  rear. 

The  river  was  so  low  that  they  rode 
along  on  the  hard  dry  mud  quickly  and 
easily;  past  the  emerald  fields  of  grain, 
the  palm  groves,  the  mud  villages  en- 
closed in  their  mud  walls ;  the  sakyias 
and  shadoufs  now  useless  and  high  in 
the  air,  and  the  quarries  of  Syene,  where 
it  seems  that  the  worlcmen  have  only 
stopped  to  rest  and  where  one  obelisk  lies 
cut  and  ready  for  shipping  down  the 
Nile. 

Past  all  this  they  rode,  without  a 
thought  of  those  who  had  once  ruled  in 
Egypt  and  worked  these  quarries  and 
found  out  these  water  wheels,  some  of 
whom  slept  in  hidden  tombs  in  the 
mountains  on  the  western  shore,  and 
had  done  great  things  in  their  time,  but 
now  were  dead  and  forgotten. 

Just  before  sunset  they  reached  the 
105 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

spot  where  the  boats  waited  for  them, — 
long  flat  boats  each  with  a  dozen  rowers, 
who,  slowly  and  skilfully  guarding 
against  the  currents,  rowed  them  across 
to  the  island  of  Philae — Philae !  the  most 
beautiful  spot  in  Egypt  and  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  in  all  the  world, 

In  the  twelfth  century  the  Temple 
of  Isis  was  almost  as  perfect  as  in  the 
days  of  the  Ptolemies.  Graceful  clus- 
ters of  palms  were  grouped  around  it, 
and  instead  of  the  matted  thorn  bushes 
and  heaps  of  stones  and  rows  of  broken 
walls  which  encumber  it  now,  the  island 
was  then  a  garden  full  of  luxuriant 
plants  and  flowers  tended  with  all  the 
care  and  skill  of  the  Persian  gardeners 
of  the  Emir. 

Ah,  that  we  might  have  seen  it  then! 
Even  now,  half  ruined  as  it  is,  the  island 
turned  a  wilderness  around  it,  the  Temple 
of  Isis,  though  less  imposing  than  those 
of  Edfou  and  Denderah,  is  still  the  most 
beautiful  and  most  poetic  temple  of  the 
Nile. 

The  party  climbed  up  a  rough  stair- 
jo6 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

case  cut  in  the  rock  and  arrived  in  the 
spacious  outer  court-yard  of  the  Temple, 
then  surrounded  by  a  majestic  colon- 
nade, only  half  of  which  now  remains. 
Here  the  Lieutenant  and  the  soldiers 
saluted  the  Emir  and  withdrew,  and  the 
Temple  became  a  harem.  The  Princess 
and  her  slaves  unwound  their  veils  and 
reappeared  in  all  the  brightness  of  their 
attire,  and  the  eunuchs  carrying  the 
various  baskets  and  jars  went  into  the 
inner  court-yard  to  prepare  the  supper. 

Ali  Amr  seated  himself  on  the  pedes- 
tal of  a  broken  column,  and  Tchagane, 
with  that  boldness  which  was  her  wont, 
followed  him  and  threw  herself  down  in 
the  clover  at  his  feet.  Rikaiya  turning 
away  from  them  went  to  the  western 
side  of  the  inclosure  and  seated  herself 
on  the  low  wall  which  still  remains  to- 
day, and  Amina  and  Fatima  came  with 
their  lutes  and  sat,  as  always,  at  her  feet. 

From  this  wall  one  has  the  most  glori- 
ous view  in  Egypt.  Here  the  mount- 
ains form  a  magnificent  and  savage 
gorge  through  which  the  Nile  rushes, 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

divided  by  a  mass  of  rocks  into  two  wild 
and  foaming  streams,  growing  wilder 
and  whiter  as  they  descend,  till  from  the 
distance  one  hears  the  thunder  of  the 
cataract. 

Rikaiya  knew  the  place  well,  but  she 
had  seen  it  only  in  happy  hours,  and  it 
inspired  different  thoughts  in  her  to-day. 
Long  she  gazed  down  the  river,  and  the 
grandeur  and  the  wildness  of  the  scene 
appealed  to  her  as  they  had  never  done 
before.  Fof  the  first  time  she  felt  the 
passion  in  the  heart  of  nature,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  this  great  and  wonder- 
ful heart  beat  in  sympathy  with  her  own. 

Then  she  looked  at  the  Temple  and 
wondered  who  had  built  it,  and  who  had 
been  the  goddess  who  had  been  wor- 
shipped there.  They  were  idolaters  she 
knew,  and  as  such  to  be  abhorred.  Her 
own  people  also  had  worshipped  idols 
before  Mohammed's  time,  but  they  had 
built  no  temples,  raised  no  shrines  like 
that  of  Philae  to  their  gods. 

For  the  first  time  she  thought  with 
interest  of  these  long  forgotten  people. 
io8 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

Surely  if  they  could  make  things  so 
beautiful,  and  which  so  long  outlived 
even  their  memory,  there  must  have 
been  something  in  them  and  their  re- 
ligion which  should  have  been  remem- 
bered. Was  it  all  really  lost — their 
history,  their  arts,  the  writing  on  their 
walls,  which  none  could  read — and  lost 
for  ever?  Perhaps  all  people  came  and 
went  and  had  their  day  and  were  for- 
gotten? Even  now  it  seemed  that  her 
own  glorious  race  was  passing;  soon 
they  would  be  no  more  than  vassals  to 
the  Turk — the  Turk  who  came  from 
nowhere,  like  the  wind,  and,  like  the 
wind,  went  where  he  would,  and  con- 
quered all  things. 

Or  could  it  be  that  nothing  in  this 
world  was  really  lost,  but  things  were 
only  hidden  for  a  time,  and  that  some 
day  perhaps  a  race  of  men  as  yet  unborn 
would  come,  to  whom  the  wisdom  of 
Egypt  would  be  revealed,  and  who  could 
read  the  writing  on  the  walls,  and  would 
give  back  its  arts,  its  secrets,  its  religion 
to  the  world? 

109 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

These  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  a 
slave  who  came  to  tell  the  Princess  that 
the  supper  was  ready  in  the  court-yard  of 
the  Temple.  Rikaiya  looked  towards 
her  husband,  and  slowly,  in  answer  to  her 
look,  the  Emir  rose  and  came  towards 
her,  gave  her  his  hand  and  led  her 
through  the  gateway  of  the  Temple  into 
the  inner  court-yard. 

Here  in  the  square  pillared  court, 
whose  beauty  is  still  fresh  to-day  is 
something  which  no  other  Temple  offers, 
a  tenderness,  a  sweetness,  which  makes 
one  feel  at  home,  like  a  memory  or  a 
perftime.  Perhaps  it  is  the  lingering 
presence  of  the  goddess  who  was  both 
wife  and  mother,  as  well  as  Queen  of 
Heaven  and  Earth. 

Cushions  and  rugs  were  arranged  on 
the  stone  incline  which  leads  into  the 
Temple,  and  here  Ali  and  Rikaiya  placed 
themselves;  a  low  table  was  spread  in 
front  of  them,  and  the  slaves  and  eu- 
nuchs stood  around  ready  to  serve. 

The  meal  was  slow  like  all  Oriental 
meals,  and  so  silent  that  the  Princess 
no 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

bade  her  Arab  girls  fetch  their  lutes  and 
sing.  They  did  her  bidding,  and  at 
their  sad  sweet  Arab  airs,  tears  glit- 
tered in  Rikaiya's  eyes,  and  the  silence 
of  her  heart  and  of  the  Temple  were 
filled. 

The  air  grew  dark  with  the  sudden 
darkness  of  Egypt.  The  sun  had  set, 
the  after-glow  had  flushed  and  faded, 
and  now,  above  the  eastern  pylon  of  the 
Temple,  appeared  the  symbol  of  her 
who  once  dwelt  there.  Mohammed, 
the  Virgin  Mary,  Diana,  have  all 
claimed  the  crescent,  but  the  full  moon 
is  the  orb  of  Isis  still. 

Slowly  it  rose,  round,  perfect,  glitter- 
ing like  a  burnished  silver  shield.  The 
darkness  vanished,  and  the  sky  changed 
to  a  soft  turquoise  blue.  The  mount- 
ains glittered  like  heaps  of  shining  ore, 
the  Nile  reflected  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
and  all  the  world  was  changed  to  blue 
and  silver. 

The  Emir  and  the  Princess  mounted 
to  the  roof  of  the  Temple,  the  better  to 
observe  the  beauty  of  the  night,  and  the 
III 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

slaves  were  left  in  the  court-yard  to  enjoy 
their  supper.  It  was  the  first  time  for 
eight  days  that  they  had  been  alone. 
Rikaiya  looked  at  her  husband  as  if  she 
expected  and  hoped  for  something, 
but  the  Emir  did  not  even  meet  her 
glance. 

Then  she  spoke,  timidly,  praising  the 
beauty  of  the  night,  and  venturing  to 
remind  him  of  the  many  happy  hours 
which  they  had  spent  at  Philae.  Her 
tone  and  manner  were  no  longer  those 
of  the  proud  daughter  of  the  Sultan  of 
Yemen,  but  the  Emir  did  not  even  seem 
to  notice  the  change.  His  answers 
showed  that  his  thoughts  were  elsewhere. 
He  was  restless  and  impatient,  and 
Rikaiya,  seeing  that  her  effort  had  failed, 
remained  silent  and  forced  herself  to 
be  calm,  though  ten  thousand  daggers 
turned  in  her  heart.  Presently  a  light 
laugh  was  heard,  a  figure  sprang  through 
the  opening  of  the  staircase,  and  Tcha- 
gane  ran  towards  them  and  stood  still 
in  front  of  the  Emir. 

"These  are  Turkish  manners  doubt- 

112 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

less,"  said  the  Princess,  "that  a  slave 
comes  uncalled. " 

"Most  gracious  Lady,"  replied 
Tchagane,  "a  slave  should  know  her 
master's  wishes  before  they  are  ex- 
pressed." 

The  Emir  rose  and  offered  his  hand 
to  his  wife.  "Let  us  go  to  Pharaoh's 
bed,"  he  said; "I  have  ordered  Hassan 
to  prepare  for  us  there,  and  there  I  will 
drink  my  sherbet  and  Tchagane  shall 
dance. " 

Rikaiya  rose  and  descended  the  stairs 
without  a  word,  Tchagane  following. 

In  the  court-yard  the  slaves,  who  were 
all  sitting  on  the  ground,  sprang  up  hast- 
ily, taking  their  lutes  and  fans.  And 
the  eunuchs  the  forbidden  flasks  of  wine. 
The  whole  party  proceeded  to  that  ex- 
quisite little  building  outside  the  Temple, 
still  known  as  Pharaoh's  bed.  In  those 
days  the  stone  roof  remained,  and  Has- 
san had  spread  the  floor  with  rugs,  ar- 
ranged a  pile  of  cushions  and  a  table  at 
one  end,  and  hung  between  the  pillars 
lanterns  of  coloured  glass.  It  was  as 
8  113 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

habitable,  and  perhaps  more  so,  than  it 
had  been  in  the  time  of  the  Ptolemies. 

The  Emir  and  the  Princess  seated 
themselves,  the  slaves  and  the  eunuchs 
grouped  themselves  at  the  other  end 
of  the  apartment,  for  Pharaoh's  bed 
contains  but  a  single  room.  The  negress 
squatting  on  the  floor  began  her  strange 
melody,  and  Tchagane  her  still  stranger 
dance.  Rikaiya  had  seen  the  dance  but 
once  before,  and  then  had  found  no 
pleasure  in  it;  now  it  was  only  with  an 
effort  that  she  sat  through  it  again.  Her 
eyes  indeed  were  not  on  the  dancer,  but 
on  her  husband,  and  she  saw,  with  death 
in  her  heart,  how  his  cheeks  flushed, 
and  with  what  passionate  delight  his 
eyes  hung  on  the  Circassian;  how  he 
forgot  everything  else  in  her,  and  how 
she  intoxicated  all  his  senses. 

When  the  dance  was  done,  he  called 
Tchagane  to  him  and  bade  her  fetch  his 
sherbet.  Never  before  had  he  drunk 
the  forbidden  liquor  in  the  presence 
of  his  wife;  she  had  heard,  but  she  had 
not  seen.  Tchagane  took  a  gold  and 
114 


The  Last  of  the  Fatiinites 

enamelled  goblet  which  stood  on  the 
table.  Hassan  handed  her  a  flask,  and, 
holding  the  latter  high  in  the  air,  she 
poured  a  stream  of  ruby  liquid  which 
filled  the  goblet  to  the  brim,  and  then, 
half  kneeling,  handed  it  to  the  Emir. 

Then  Rikaiya  rose,  "My  Lord," 
"wine  is  forbidden  by  the  Prophet." 

The  Emir  frowned  and  his  black  eyes 
flashed  fire. 

"This  is  not  wine,"  Tchagane  in- 
terposed with  her  accustomed  insolence, 
"it  is  but  sherbet." 

"Lying,"  said  Rikaiya,  "is  the  natu- 
ral vice  of  slaves ;  the  Emir  will  not  say 
it  is  not  wine." 

"No,"  replied  AH  Amr  slowly,  "it 
is  wine,"  and  raising  the  goblet  to  his 
lips,  he  drained  it  at  a  single  draught. 

"Another    cup,  Tchagane." 

Rikaiya  did  not  look  at  him  again,  but 
calling  Amina  and  Fatima  to  her,  she 
passed  out  of  Pharaoh's  bed  into  the 
moonlight.  Hassan  followed  them,  and 
silently  all  four  walked  through  the 
palm  grove  down  to  the  water's  edge. 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

There  for  a  Uttle  while  they  sat,  but 
Rikaiya  could  find  no  rest,  and  soon 
they  wandered  back  among  the  palms. 
Here  they  met  the  other  slaves  and 
eunuchs  whom  the  Emir  had  dismissed, 
that  he  might  be  alone  with  the  Cir- 
cassian. 

Rikaiya  took  no  notice  of  them,  but 
continued  her  way  through  the  moonlit 
gardens,  till  suddenly,  without  knowing 
where  she  went,  she  found  herself  once 
more  in  front  of  Pharaoh's  bed.  A 
sudden  desire  seized  her  to  see  her 
husband  and  his  favourite  alone, — a 
something  which  she  could  neither  ex- 
plain nor  control.  Motioning  her  attend- 
ants to  withdraw  to  a  little  distance,  she 
advanced  alone,  and,  stepping  upon  the 
threshold,  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the 
portal,  looking  in  upon  the  illuminated 
apartment,  herself  unseen. 

The  Emir  still  leaned  at  his  ease 
among  the  cushions,  and  his  flushed 
cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes  showed  that 
his  blood  was  hot  with  love  and  wine. 
Tchagane,  holding  the  goblet  in  her 
ii6 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

hand,  went  to  refill  it  from  the  flasks, 
which  stood  upon  the  ledge  between 
two  pillars.  Her  back  was  turned  to 
the  Emir,  her  face  full  towards  the 
entrance,  and  Rikaiya  marked  well  how 
she  raised  the  flacon  and  poured  out  the 
wine. 

"Would  my  Lord  like  a  drop  of  attar 
of  roses  in  this  cup?"  she  asked,  looking 
over  her  shoulder  at  the  Emir.  "Here 
is  my  Lady  Rikaiya 's  own  bottle.  It 
will  give  a  sweetness  to  the  wine. " 

"Yes,"  said  the  Emir,  "let  me  taste 
it;  anything  from  your  hand  will  be 
sweet!" 

Tchagane  set  down  the  goblet,  lifted 
the  enamelled  flacon  and  then,  with  her 
left  hand,  raising  over  it  a  jewelled 
medallion  which  hung  upon  her  breast, 
shook  from  it  a  white  powder  into  the 
perfume.  Then,  quickly  pouring  a  few 
drops  of  attar  into  the  wine,  she  carried 
the  goblet  back  to  the  Emir. 

For  a  second  Rikaiya 's  heart  stood 
still,  then  her  one  thought  was  for  her 
husband ;  springing  through  the  doorway, 
117 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

she  ran  to  him  and  cried :  "  Do  not  drink, 
my  Lord;  the  wine  is  poisoned." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Emir,  "with  the  sweet 
poison  of  love,  which  it  pleases  me  to 
drink,"  and  though  she  sought  to  snatch 
the  goblet  from  him,  he  pushed  her 
back  with  his  left  hand,  and  raising  it 
to  his  lips,  drained  the  liquor  at  a 
draught. 

"Ah,  Tchagane,  you  are  right,"  he 
said:  "the  attar  adds  not  only  sweetness 
to  the  wine,  but  fire!" 

His  eyes  flashed,  his  cheeks  flushed  a 
deeper  red,  and  turning  to  his  wife  he 
said:  "Princess,  the  one  poison  that  I 
fear  is  jealousy.  Oh !  how  the  wine  glows 
in  my  veins! — it  thrills — it  bums,  it — 
God  and  his  Prophet!  what  is  this?" 
Suddenly  he  turned  pale,  the  veins 
stood  out  on  his  forehead,  and  his  eyes 
glared  like  a  wild  beast's  at  bay.  Spring- 
ing to  his  feet,  he  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  of  the  women,  and  the  fierce 
question  came  from  his  trembling  lips, 
"Which  of  you  has  done  this?" 

And  in  their  faces  he  read  his  answer: 
ii8 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

in  Rikaiya's,  love  and  terror  and  de- 
spair; in  Tchagane's,  only  the  mocking 
smile  of  a  devil  who  has  done  her  worst. 

"Rikaiya!"  he  cried;  "Rikaiya,  for- 
give me ;  she  is  a  Jinn,  she  has  bewitched 
me,  but  as  Allah  hears  me  I  love  you  and 
you  alone." 

The  Emir  swayed  and  tottered  on  his 
feet;  Rikaiya  caught  him  in  her  arms 
and  held  him  for  a  moment  in  an  embrace 
that  seemed  as  if  it  might  hold  him  back 
from  death  itself.  Then  his  limbs  gave 
way  under  him,  his  weight  overcame 
her,  and  they  both  fell  among  the 
cushions, — Ali  Amr  still  in  Rikaiya's 
arms  and — dead. 

Tchagane  stood  and  looked  at  them  a 
moment,  then  rushing  to  the  doorway 
screamed  for  help — help  where  there 
was  no  more.  Hassan,  Amina,  and  Pa- 
tima  were  in  a  moment  on  the  scene, 
and  soon  the  other  slaves  and  eunuchs, 
running  from  all  directions,  filled  the 
apartment.  Hassan  had  lifted  the  Emir 
and  torn  his  carftan  open  while  Rikaiya 
felt  his  heart.  Amina  brought  a  jar 
119 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

of  water,  and  Fatima  a  flask  of  wine. 
They  fanned  him,  rubbed  his  temples  all 
in  vain — never  more  would  Ali  feel  the 
air  stirred  by  peacocks'  feathers — ^never 
more  would  he  drink  either  water  or 
wine.     His   heart   was  still. 

"What  had  happened?"  the  slaves 
asked  each  other,  but  no  one  answered. 

Tchagane  had  slipped  unobserved 
from  the  building,  and  Rikaiya  sat 
among  the  cushions  silent  and  motion- 
less, as  if  turned  to  stone,  still  holding 
her  husband  in  her  arms. 

Presently  the  sound  of  hurrying  feet 
was  heard  outside.  Tchagane  wrapped 
in  a  veil  reappeared,  and  the  Lieutenant 
of  the  Emir  would  have  followed,  with 
half  a  dozen  soldiers  at  his  heels,  had  not 
Hassan  stopped  him  at  the  door  and 
warned  him  against  invading  the  sacred- 
ness  of  the  harem. 

The  Lieutenant,  a  native  Egyptian, 
a  rarity  in  this  much  conquered  country, 
whose  name  was  Yousef,  and  who  bore 
the  Turkish  title  of  Bey,  stopped,  but 
not    for    long.     "If    his    master    were 

I20 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

dead,"  he  said,  "it  became  his  duty  to 
enquire  into  his  death,  and  to  take 
command  of  affairs,  including,  though 
with  all  reverence,  the  harem." 

He  therefore  demanded  entrance  and 
speech  of  the  Princess  as  soon  as  the 
women  had  had  time  to  veil  themselves. 
And  Hassan,  seeing  resistance  useless, 
sent  the  other  eunuchs  to  the  Temple 
in  search  of  the  mantles  and  veils, 
and  Rikaiya  and  her  slaves  were 
soon  ready  to  receive  their  unwonted 
visitors. 

Yousef  Bey  then  entered  Pharaoh's 
bed,  accompanied  by  half  a  dozen 
guards,  saluted  the  widow  of  his  Lord, 
and  then  proceeded  to  examine  the 
body  of  the  Emir,  which  had  been  laid 
on  a  pile  of  cushions,  in  the  centre  of 
the  room.  Assured  at  once  that  his 
master  was  dead,  the  Lieutenant  turned 
to  the  Princess,  and  asked  her  if  she 
considered  that  the  Emir  had  met  a 
natural  death. 

"No,"  replied  Rikaiya,  "he  was  poi- 
soned by  a  slave  whom  he  brought  back 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

with  him  from  Cairo — I  saw  her  mix 
the  poison  in  his  wine." 

"And  you  did  not  stop  her " 

"I  could  not,"  said  Rikaiya,  with 
difficulty  suppressing  her  pride  and 
indignation  at  being  thus  questioned 
by  an  inferior. 

"  I  begged  the  Emir  not  to  drink,  but 
he  would  not  listen." 

"How  did  she  give  him  the  poison?" 
asked  Yousef, 

"In  attar  of  roses,  which  she  added 
to  the  wine " 

"And  which  I  took  from  my  Lady's 
own  flask,"  cried  Tchagane,  rushing 
forward.  "Yousef  Bey,  I  call  God  and 
his  Prophet  to  witness  that  I  am  inno- 
cent. I  loved  my  master  and  he  loved 
me.  I  was  his  favourite.  My  Lady  was 
jealous  and  took  this  means  to  revenge 
herself  and  to  destroy  us  both.  " 

There  was  an  instant's  silence.  Ri- 
kaiya recoiled  a  step  in  horror — horror 
doubled  by  the  fact  that  she  read  in  all 
the  faces  round  her  the  impression  made 
by  Tchagane 's  words. 

122 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

"Woman,"  said  Yousef  slowly  to 
Tchagane,  "you  speak  boldly,  but  do 
you  know  what  you  are  saying?  You 
have  accused  the  Princess  Rikaiya, 
daughter  of  the  Sultan  of  Yemen,  of  the 
murder  of  her  husband,  Ali  Amr — 
Emir!  Think  well  before  you  repeat 
the  charge." 

"I  repeat  it,"  cried  Tchagane,  "and 
God  is  my  witness!  Who  can  believe 
that  I  would  harm  my  master?  I  am  a 
slave,  who  lived  but  in  his  favour,  and 
losing  him  to  me  means  losing  every- 
thing. My  Lady  was  jealous;  she 
thought  her  power  over  my  Lord  was 
gone.  She  poisoned  her  flacon,  know- 
ing that  I  would  mingle  the  attar  with 
his  wine  and  that  the  crime  could  be 
fastened  on  me.  Take  this  flacon; 
try  it  for  yourself;  give  it  to  some 
dumb  beast  to  taste,  and  see  if  death 
comes  not  to  it  as  quickly  as  to  the 
Emir." 

"Give  me  the  flacon,"  said  Yousef  in 
a  low  stem  voice,  "and  the  cup  out  of 
which  the  Emir  drank." 
123 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

Both  were  handed  to  him  by  the 
slaves;  he  smelled  them  both  and 
found  in  each  the  same  perfume.  Then 
turning  to  Rikaiya  he  said,  "Princess, 
is  this  your  flacon?" 

"Yes,"  repHed  Rikaiya,  "and  it  is 
poisoned  with  some  strange  poison, 
doubtless  of  the  Greeks.  I  saw  this 
woman  drop  it  from  the  medallion  which 
she  wears  upon  her  breast.  Take  it 
from  her,  examine  it,  and  you  will  see 
that  the  charge  which  she  has  dared  to 
make  against  me  is  as  false  and  base  as 
she  herself. " 

"Give  me  the  medallion,"  said  the 
Lieutenant,  and  without  a  moment's 
hesitation  Tchagane  unfastened  it  and 
handed  it  to  him. 

Yousef  turned  the  medallion  over  in 
his  hand,  a  costly  trinket  of  Greek  work- 
manship, set  with  bright  coloured  stones. 

"Princess,"  he  said,  "is  this  the  one?" 

"  Yes, "  said  Rikaiya. 

Yousef  turned  and  twisted  the  medal- 
lion, and  his  expression  changed ;  finally 
he  threw  it  on  the  stone  floor,  and  picked 
124 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

it  up  again  and  then — at  last  he  spoke. 
"This  could  hold  no  poison.  It  does 
not  open — it   is  solid  gold." 

"  God  has  proved  my  innocence !"  cried 
Tchagane,  and,  starting  forward,  she 
managed,  as  if  by  accident,  to  drop  her 
veil  and  stood,  as  if  unconscious  of  the 
fact,  before  the  lieutenant  and  his  guards 
in  all  her  beauty.  The  other  women 
screamed  in  terror,  but  Tchagane  stood 
unmoved.  What  was  it  indeed  to  her 
to  be  thus  looked  upon? — she  who  had 
been  sold  in  half  the  markets  of  the 
Turkish  Empire. 

Yousef  Bey  was  young,  and  lacked 
none  of  the  fire  of  his  race.  He  looked 
at  Tchagane  as  if  he  could  never  turn 
his  eyes  away.  Her  eyes  met  his,  and 
from  that  moment  the  tongues  of  angels 
might  have  borne  witness  against  her 
in  vain.  On  his  other  side  stood 
Rikaiya,  shrouded  in  her  veil;  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  Yousef,  and  she  saw  that 
in  the  contest  between  them  (whose  very 
existence  she  held  as  an  insult  to  herself) 
he  had  taken  the  part  of  the  slave. 
125 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

"Yousef  Bey,"  she  said,  "I  see  that 
you  have  decided  against  me.  The  word 
of  a  Princess  seems  of  less  value  than 
that  of  a  slave.  But  you  are  not  my 
judge.  My  husband,  the  Emir,  was 
governor  of  Upper  Egypt;  only  by  the 
will  of  the  Sultan  can  his  place  be  filled, 
and  there  is  therefore  none  here  to  whom 
I  can  appeal.  I  will  go  to  Cairo.  You 
and  this  woman  will  accompany  me 
with  what  attendants  I  shall  choose,  and 
I  will  lay  my  cause  before  the  Emir 
Shiracouh. " 

Rikaiya  was  a  Princess,  and  therefore 
due  to  all  consideration  and  respect. 
Yousef  had  been  her  Lord's  Lieutenant, 
and  he  reflected  that  the  authority 
which  he  had  gained  so  suddenly  might 
not  be  his  for  long,  and  that  discretion 
was  the  better  part. 

"Princess,"  he  said,  "I  accept  your 
proposition.  My  brother  Achmet  shall 
fill  my  place  as  Captain  of  the  Guard. 
We  will  bury  my  late  Lord,  Ali  Amr, 
to-morrow,  and  the  next  day  we  will 
start  for  Cairo," 

126 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

"It  is  well,"  replied  Rikaiya;  "Has- 
san will  conduct  our  preparations,  and 
do  you,  command  two  boats  for  our 
journey  and  another  lodging  for  the 
Circassian  till  then  in  Assouan.  She 
does  not  cross  the  threshold  of  my  palace 
nor  enter  my  presence  again," 

Yousef  bowed  in  silence,  and  so  far 
from  disputing  the  will  of  the  Princess, 
his  heart  was  filled  with  joy,  for  he 
promised  himself  to  lodge  Tchagane 
nowhere  but  in  his  own  house. 

The  body  of  the  Emir  was  then  lifted 
upon  a  rug,  and  so  carried  by  the  guards 
out  of  Pharaoh's  bed  and  through  the 
moonlit  gardens,  the  train  of  women 
and  eunuchs  following  a  sad  and  silent 
procession  (very  different  from  the  one 
which  had  arrived  on  the  island  only  a 
few  hours  before)  back  to  the  Nile. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  the  party 
again  reached  Assouan.  Yousef  Bey 
had  commanded  silence,  not  wishing  at 
that  hour  to  rouse  the  sleeping  town 
with  the  news  of  the  Emir's  death. 
Rikaiya  and  her  slaves  entered  the 
127 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

harem,  and  the  body  of  the  Emir  was 
disposed  in  the  audience  hall  of  the 
palace  in  charge  of  the  eunuchs  and 
guards. 

Then  Yousef  led  Tchagane  and  her 
negress  to  his  own  home.  His  harem, 
which  included  his  mother  and  four 
slaves,  for  he  was  not  yet  married, 
were  all  asleep,  and  not  deeming  it  best 
to  wake  them,  he  retained  the  Circassian 
and  her  attendant  in  the  rooms  of  the 
Salamlik, 

Tchagane  did  not  oppose  the  will  of 
this  new  master  to  whom  chance  had 
given  her.  Yousef  was  young  and 
pleased  her  as  well  as  another.  She 
had  changed  hands  too  often  not  to 
understand  her  destiny,  and  she  knew 
and  loved  her  power.  The  sun  rose  on 
the  day  of  Ali  Amr's  funeral  to  find  his 
Lieutenant  as  much  the  slave  of  the 
Circassian  as  the  Emir  had  been  the 
day  before. 

Rikaiya  remained  shut  up  in  the  inner- 
most apartment  of  the  harem,  attended 
only  by  Amina  and  Fatima,  and  refusing 
12S 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

to  speak  to  anyone  else  except  Hassan. 
Alone  with  her  devoted  slaves  she  gave 
way  entirely  to  grief,  but  she  felt  that 
even  before  the  rest  of  the  household 
she  could  no  longer  appear  as  she  had 
always  done,  for  she  knew  not  how  many 
of  them  might  be  against  her,  how 
many  might  believe  the  horrible  accusa- 
tion which  had  been  cast  upon  her,  and 
when  she  went  among  them  again  she 
knew  that  she  must  wear  a  mask. 

The  funeral  of  the  Emir  took  place 
late  in  the  afternoon,  and  was  cele- 
brated with  all  the  pomp  which  could  be 
so  hastily  arranged.  The  little  Abdul 
walked  in  the  procession  between  Hassan 
and  Yousef  Bey.  The  coffin  was  cov- 
ered with  gold  brocade  and  India 
shawls.  The  eunuchs  and  pages  threw 
cakes  and  silver  money  in  the  air  as 
they  passed  along  the  narrow  streets, 
and  almost  the  entire  population  of  As- 
souan followed  the  cortege  and  saw  the 
Emir  laid  in  his  last  resting-place  in 
the  desert  sand. 

The  next  day  two  boats  with  broad 
9  129 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

brown  sails  and  twenty  oars  apiece  left 
Assouan  for  Cairo.  On  the  first  was 
Yousef  Bey  with  Tchagane  and  her 
negress,  one  eunuch  and  a  dozen  of  the 
guards.  On  the  second,  Rikaiya  with 
the  little  Abdul,  now  last  of  his  race,  his 
nurse,  Amina,  Fatima,  Hassan,  and  two 
other  eunuchs  and  another  dozen  of  the 
guards. 

It  was  now  the  month  of  April,  and 
the  Nile  was  very  low,  but  the  wind  was 
favourable,  blowing  always  from  the 
south  and  though  the  boats  stopped  at 
sunset,  and  lay  all  night  moored  to  the 
banks,  three  weeks'  time  brought  this 
strangely  assorted  party  on  their  still 
stranger  errand  to  the  capital.  It  was 
the  first  night  of  May  and  a  half  moon 
shone  in  the  deep  blue  sky  when  the  boats 
were  finally  moored  to  the  landing-place, 
and  the  long  silent  journey  ended  in  the 
shadow  of  the  minarets  and  domes  of 
Cairo. 

The  next  morning  Yousef  went  ashore 
and  sought  an  audience  of  the  Governor. 
All  things  move  slowly  in  the  East,  and 
130 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

it  was  evening  before  he  returned  with  a 
litter  and  a  train  of  donkeys  with  large 
red  saddles;  and  orders  to  bring  the 
Princess  and  her  suite  to  the  palace. 
Rikaiya  seated  herself  in  the  litter,  her 
attendants  mounted  the  donkeys,  and 
the  cavalcade,  setting  off  at  a  good 
speed,  traversed  the  city  and  arrived 
at  the  splendid  and  mysterious  palace 
of  the  Fatimite  Kaliphs,  now  the  resi- 
dence of  the  Turkish  Governor. 

Here  Yousef  was  obliged  to  part  from 
Tchagane  and  that  without  a  word  or 
look,  but  not  without  hope,  for  he  in- 
tended to  beg  her  as  a  gift  from  the 
Emir.  The  Circassian  once  more  passed 
into  the  train  of  the  Princess,  and  the 
women  and  the  eunuchs  and  the  little 
prince  Abdul  were  introduced  into  the 
palace  by  a  side  entrance  which  led  to 
the  harem. 

Rikaiya  was  the  daughter  of  a  Sultan, 
but  the  palace  of  Yemen  and  that  of 
Assouan  were  both  simple  as  compared 
to  this,  on  which  had  been  lavished  for 
three  centuries  the  treasures  of  Egypt, 
131 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

the  richest  country  of  the  world.  Led 
by  one  of  the  viceregal  eunuchs,  the 
party  advanced  through  room  after 
room,  connected  by  folding  doors,  in 
which  were  collected  the  wonders  and 
splendours  of  the  Orient,  a  dream  of  the 
Arabian  Nights:  walls  of  translucent 
alabaster  or  rich  Damascus  tiles,  or 
mosaics  of  semi-precious  stones,  doors 
and  shutters,  chests  and  tables  of  inlaid 
woods,  often  incrusted  with  gold, 
silver,  and  jewels,  enamelled  lamps 
hanging  by  gold  and  silver  chains. 
There  were  wonderful  carpets,  softening 
the  tread  on  marble  floors,  curtains, 
divans,  and  cushions  of  the  richest  silks 
and  satins  interwoven  with  silver  and 
gold.  Everywhere  were  spread  soft  and 
brilliant  colours,  gold  and  jewels,  rich 
and  precious  things;  everything  which, 
through  the  senses,  could  delight  the 
heart. 

Finally  they  reached  the  apartments 

which  had  been  allotted  for  their  use,  and 

Rikaiya  and  her  attendants  established 

themselves  as  comfortably  as  possible. 

132 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

A  troup  of  black-eyed  girls,  who  not 
so  long  ago  had  been  the  slaves  of  Khalif 
Adhed,  fluttered  in  to  offer  their  help, 
if  help  were  needed,  and  much  more  to 
gratify  their  curiosity,  but  no  woman  of 
higher  rank,  if  indeed  there  were  any 
such,  appeared.  The  silver  lamps  were 
lighted,  rose  water  and  perfumes  were 
brought  to  the  Princess,  and  presently 
an  elaborate  supper  was  served. 

Rikaiya,  who  during  her  whole  voyage 
had  been  plunged  in  grief,  began  to  feel 
that  new  interest  in  life  which  comes  with 
any  pleasant  change.  The  novelty  and 
splendour  of  the  Palace  of  the  Khalifs, 
after  the  discomforts  and  monotony 
of  the  voyage,  seemed  to  her  like  morn- 
ing after  night,  and  her  heart  was  filled 
once  more  with  hope.  Human  nature 
and  youth  do  not  change,  and  though  a 
widow  and  the  victim  of  a  false  accusa- 
tion,  Rikaiya  was  but  seventeen. 

The  other  slaves  and  eunuchs  had 
withdrawn;  Amina  and  Patima  only 
were  with  her  sitting  at  her  feet,  and 
beginning    to    tune    their    lutes.     The 

133 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

Princess  leant  among  a  pile  of  cushions, 
unconsciously  the  most  beautiful  thing 
in  this  beautiful  apartment,  and  robed 
in  the  very  costume  of  crimson  and 
gold  which  she  had  worn  one  month  be- 
fore, on  the  return  of  her  husband  to 
Assouan. 

Suddenly  the  portiere  in  front  of  her 
was  lifted.  A  eunuch,  evidently  the 
Kisslar  Aga  of  the  palace,  entered  and, 
stepping  respectfully  aside,  gave  place 
to  a  young  man,  who,  with  all  the  ease 
of  one  who  knows  himself  the  master  of 
the  situation,  walked  to  the  middle 
of  the  room  and  stood  still  before  the 
Princess.  Rikaiya  was  so  startled  by 
this  apparition  that  she  forgot  that 
she  was  unveiled,  and  returned  the 
newcomer's  gaze  with  interest  equal  to 
his  own. 

The  young  man  was  of  medium  height, 
slender  and  graceful,  dark  and  pale. 
His  features  were  fine  and  clearly  cut; 
he  was  smooth  shaven,  and  his  ears, 
hands,  and  feet  were  most  beautiful. 
Instead  of  a  turban  he  wore  the  round 
134 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

astrachan  cap  of  the  Kurds,  which 
showed  his  hair  in  closely  curling  blue- 
black  waves,  and  his  eyes  were  grey 
with  long  black  lashes,  and  as  bright 
as  stars.  His  whole  expression  was 
sensitive  and  almost  sad,  but  full  of 
genius  and  fire, — a  being  in  whom  the 
body  was  second  to  the  soul. 

He  wore  a  caftan  of  black  satin  shot 
with  silver  and  fastened  with  a  silver 
girdle  round  his  waist.  In  the  girdle 
stuck  a  jewelled  dagger  and  on  his  left 
hand  he  wore  a  signet  ring. 

The  charm  of  his  presence  was  so  great 
that  Rikaiya  could  hardly  turn  her  eyes 
away  from  him,  but  finally  recollecting 
how  unwarrantable  was  the  appearance 
in  her  apartment  of  a  man,  she  spoke, 
but  to  the  eunuch. 

"Who  is  this  person,"  she  asked, 
"who  against  all  the  rules  of  Islam 
enters  my  presence  without  giving  me 
even  time  to  veil  myself?" 

"Princess,"  replied  the  eunuch  with 
an  air  of  conscious  pride,  "this  is  the 
Governor  of  Egypt." 
135 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

"This,"  cried  Rikaiya,  rising  to  her 
feet,  "the  Governor  of  Egypt!  Surely 
the  Emir  Shiracouh  is  not  so  young." 

"Princess,"  said  the  young  man, 
speaking  for  himself,  "the  Emir  Shir- 
acouh is  dead;  I  am  his  nephew  Sal- 
addin."! 

His  voice,  which  was  soft  and  sweet, 
played  on  Rikaiya's  ears  like  music. 
They  looked  at  each  other  again  in  sil- 
ence. It  was  one  of  those  moments  when 
time  seems  to  hold  its  breath — ^this  first 
meeting  of  the  Arab  Princess  and  the 
Kurdish  soldier,  who  was  soon  to  be 
the  Sultan  of  the  Turks. 

The  eunuch,  anxious,  as  is  usual  with 
his  kind,  to  talk,  narrated  that  Salad- 
din  Emir,  though  young  (he  was  at  this 
time  twenty-two) ,  had  been  chosen  by 
the  Sultan  to  succeed  his  uncle  because 
of  his  wisdom,  which  he  possessed 
beyond  his  years,  and  for  the  valour 
which  had  made  him  the  hero  of  every 
battle  in  which  he  had  taken  part. 

>  Saleh-ed-din. 

136 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

Saladdin  bid  the  eunuch  hold  his 
peace,  but  his  words  had  pleased 
Rikaiya.  She  was  glad  to  think  that 
those  lips  which  smiled  so  radiantly 
could  direct  in  council  also,  and  that 
hand  could  wield  the  scimiter  as  well 
as  wear  the  signet.  He  was  the  Gov- 
ernor of  Egypt,  and  she  bethought  her- 
self that  it  was  to  him  that  she  must 
plead  her  cause. 

"Saladdin  Emir"  she  said,  "I  have 
come  to  you  in  search  of  justice.  My 
husband,  Ali  Emir,  is  dead.  He  was 
poisoned. " 

Saladdin  smiled.  "By  a  Circassian 
slave,"  he  said,  "whom  my  uncle  gave 
him,  and  to  whom  he  entrusted  the 
performance  of  the  deed. " 

Rikaiya  shrank  back  with  mingled 
horror  and  relief;  the  secret  was  revealed 
and  she  was  cleared. 

"So  it  was  all  a  plot,"  she  said.  "The 
Emir  Shiracouh  pretended  to  be  my 
husband's  friend,  and  sent  him  home 
with  honours,  presents,  and  his  as- 
sassin.   Surely  it  would  have  been  more 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

honourable  and  less  cruel  to  us  both  had 
he  taken  his  life  openly  here." 

Her  eyes  flashed  and  her  cheeks 
flushed  crimson;  the  whole  force  and 
passion  of  her  nature  were  aroused  by 
the  treachery  of  Shiracouh. 

"Princess,"  replied  Saladdin,  "AH 
Amr  was  a  favourite  with  the  people,  a 
Fatimite.  His  death  was  considered 
necessary,  and  Shiracouh  thought  best 
that  it  should  seem  an  accident.  My 
uncle  was  the  servant  of  the  Sultan, 
and  did  what  he  considered  his  duty  to 
his  master.  No  assassin  should  strike 
a  blow  for  me,  or  through  me,  for  the 
Sultan  or  the  Khalif.  But,  neither  will 
I  judge  the  dead, " 

" Saladdin  Emir, "  said  Rikaiya,  "your 
words  are  just.  Shiracouh  is  dead, 
and  you  have  not  to  answer  for  his 
deed.  But  was  it  his  intention  to  include 
me  in  his  vengeance,  by  making  me  my 
husband's  murderess?  Of  which  I  am 
accused." 

"No,  Princess,"  replied  Saladdin. 
"The  slave  accused  you  of  the  crime 
138 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

perhaps  to  save  herself,  perhaps  from 
jealousy,  or  for  some  other  reason.  God 
alone  knows  the  female  heart.  But, 
since  the  accusation  has  been  made,  I 
tell  you  this  which  otherwise  should  not 
be  told.  I  am  the  Governor  of  Egypt. 
My  first  duty  is  to  the  Sultan,  my  first 
regard  for  the  memory  of  Shiracouh! 
But  I  am  resolved  to  maintain  justice 
and  to  defend  the  innocent,  and  it  shall 
not  be  said  that  Saladdin  allowed  the 
daughter  of  a  Sultan  to  suffer  under  a 
false  and  unjust  charge." 

Rikaiya  looked  at  him  a  moment  more 
in  silence,  and  there  were  tears  in  her 
velvet  eyes.  One  noble  nature  under- 
stands another,  and  she  knew  the  sacri- 
fice which  Saladdin  made  for  her,  and 
the  danger  which  he  ran  in  thus  reveal- 
ing a  state  secret  for  her  sake. 

"Saladdin  Emir,"  she  said, "you  are 
more  than  good  to  me  and  I  thank  you 
with  all  my  heart. " 

Saladdin  flushed  with  pleasure,  and  a 
smile  like  summer  lightning  played 
around  his  lips, 

139 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

"  Princess,  "  he  said,  "an  act  of  justice 
needs  no  thanks." 

A  sudden  rustUng  was  heard  behind 
them,  the  portiere  was  hastily  parted, 
and,  with  her  usual  audacity,  Tchagane 
ran  into  the  room  and,  falling  on  her  knees 
beside  Saladdin,  would  have  taken  and 
kissed  his  hand.  But  he  drew  back  and 
regarded  her  with  an  imperious  frown. 

"The  assassin,"  he  said,  "of  Ali  Amr 
Emir!" 

Tchagane  looked  at  him  with  all  her 
witchery,  that  witchery  which  had 
never  failed  her  yet. 

"Saladdin  Effendi  Emir,"  she  replied, 
' '  I  am  a  slave  and  did  the  bidding  of  my 
master." 

"Yes,"  he  said," but  the  bidding  was 
not  mine,  and  you  did  more, — you  ac- 
cused an  innocent  woman,  a  Princess, 
of  the  crime. " 

"Emir,  life  is  sweet  even  to  a  slave. 
My  Lady  Rikaiya  had  seen  me  drop  the 
poison  in  the  Emir's  wine.  She  accused 
me  of  the  murder,  and  I  accused  her  in 
return,  to  save  myself. " 
140 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

Tchagane  was  a  ju  dge  of  hu  man  natu  re . 
Her  boldness  and  the  truth  of  what  she 
said,  unhappy  as  it  was,  pleased  Salad- 
din,  but  she  herself  did  not.  For  him  her 
beauty  and  her  witchery  had  no  power. 
He  knew  and  could  not  forget  what  she 
was.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life 
Tchagane  had  failed. 

"Princess, "  said  the  Emir,  turning  to 
Rikaiya  again,  "you  have  heard  the 
woman's  words,  and  she  tells  the  truth. 
She  has  been  the  instrument — I  will  not 
say  of  justice  but  of  destiny.  But 
through  her  you  have  lost  your  husband 
and  your  home,  and  have  suffered  under 
a  false  and  terrible  accusation.  It  is  for 
you  to  fix  her  punishment!" 

Rikaiya  looked  at  her  enemy,  at  the 
woman  who  had  robbed  her  of  her  hus- 
band's love,  of  her  happy  life,  her  palace 
at  Assouan,  of  all  that  she  held  most 
dear, — the  woman  who,  though  but  a 
slave,  had  triumphed  over  her,  a  Princess, 
on  every  occasion  when  there  had  been  a 
contest  between  the  two.  Now  at  last 
her  hour  had  come.  All  that  she  had 
141 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

suffered  passed  through  her  mind  and 
involuntarily,  as  though  to  still  the  pain 
of  remembrance,  she  pressed  her  hands 
across  her  heart. 

Tchagane  did  not  look  at  her,  but 
remained  kneeling,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
Saladdin,  incredulous  that  he  could 
really  resist  her.  It  was  the  same  look 
that  Rikaiya  knew  too  well,  which  she 
had  seen  her  fix,  not  only  on  Ali  Amr 
but  on  Yousef, — the  look  with  which 
Tchagane  regarded  all  men. 

For  a  moment  an  overwhelming  rage 
possessed  the  heart  of  the  Princess,  a 
desire  to  stab  the  Circassian  to  the  heart 
with  her  own  hand.  In  another  moment, 
she  thought,  Saladdin  would  melt  as 
the  others  had  done,  would  recall  his 
words  to  her,  turn  from  her  as  even  her 
husband  had  done,  and  take  the  "Turk- 
ish devil"  to  his  heart.  And  then  she 
looked  at  him,  the  young  Governor  of 
Egypt.  His  eyes  were  indeed  fixed  upon 
Tchagane,  but  not  with  love,  only  with 
a  disdainful  curiosity,  and  then  as  if  she 
wearied  him  too  far,  he  spoke. 
142 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimltes 

"Woman, "  he  said,  "spare  your  sweet 
looks  and  smiles,  keep  them  till  the  next 
time  when  you  stand  for  sale  in  the 
market.  Such  as  you  have  no  power 
to    charm    Saladdin. " 

And  as  the  lightning  comes  and  goes, 
Rikaiya's  rage  vanished,  leaving  no 
trace  behind.  Tchagane's  death  could 
not  have  repaid  her  for  all  that  she  had 
suffered  at  her  hands,  but — Saladdin 
had  avenged  her, 

"Emir,"  she  said,  "this  woman  has 
indeed  caused  me  to  suffer  everything 
of  which  the  human  heart  is  capable, 
but  she,  it  seems,  was  but  the  instrument 
in  the  hands  of  others;  and  were  it  not 
so,  still  it  were  beneath  my  dignity  to 
take  revenge  upon  a  slave.  I  only  ask 
that  I  may  never  have  to  see  her  again.  " 

"  Princess, "  exclaimed  Saladdin,  look- 
ing at  Rikaiya  with  that  look  which 
"the  others"  had  given  to  Tchagane, 
"woman  is  beautiful,  tender,  and  sweet 
by  nature  and  the  will  of  God.  I  have 
wondered  if  she  could  be  great  and  noble 
also,  or  if  those  qualities  were  vouchsafed, 

143 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

alone  of  all  her  sex,  to  Kadjah,  Mother  of 
the  believers.  Rikaiya,  I  have  found 
them  in  you.  You  are  a  Princess  not  by 
birth  alone, " 

Rikaiya  flushed  with  pleasure,  more, 
with  joy.  She  had  loved  her  husband 
but — he  had  not  been  like  Saladdin. 

And  now  the  nature  of  the  slave 
showed  itself  at  last  without  its  mask. 
Without  a  word  of  thanks  for  Rikaiya 's 
pardon,  she  threw  herself  on  her  face  at 
Saladdin 's  feet,  and  wept  and  sobbed  as 
if  seeking  in  a  last  fit  of  desperation 
to  gain  by  tears  what  she  had  failed 
to  win  by  smiles, 

"Mahmoud,"  said  Saladdin,  speaking 
to  the  eunuch,  "remove  this  woman  to 
the  most  distant  part  of  the  harem, 
and  see  that  never  again  does  she  offend 
the  Princess  Rikaiya  with  her  presence. 
To-morrow  she  must  be  sent  away,  but 
where?  She  is  a  firebrand  who  will 
bring  trouble  ever3rwhere,  and  I  will 
not  make  any  true  believer  subject  to 
such  a  curse." 

"  Emir  Effendi "  said  the  eunuch,  "you 
144 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

might  send  her  as  a  present  to  the  Shah 
of  Persia  in  return  for  the  arms  and 
saddles  and  the  great  carpet  which  he 
sent  to  the  Emir  Shiracouh. " 

"No,"  said  Saladdin,  "the  Shah  is  a 
Shia,  but  still  a  Moslem.  I  will  send 
her, "  and  again  he  smiled  the  lightning 
smile,  "to  the  young  Emperor  of  Con- 
stantinople. It  may  be  the  will  of  Allah 
that  she  shall  hasten  the  downfall  of  the 
Comnennian  dynasty." 

At  these  words  which  inspired  her 
with  a  new  hope,  Tchagane  rose. 
Saladdin 's  manner  had  led  her  to  dread 
the  worst  fate  which  can  befall  a  slave, 
to  be  given  to  some  poor  man  and  con- 
demned to  a  life  of  poverty  and  drudg- 
ery, from  which  there  would  be  no 
escape.  Even  a  mediocre  house  like 
that  of  Yousef  was  not  to  her  taste, 
though  the  Lieutenant  himself  has 
amused  her  for  a  while.  Though  bom 
a  peasant  and  become  a  slave,  her  life  had 
been  lived  in  palaces,  and  splendour  and 
luxury  were  as  necessary  to  her  as  to  a 
Princess  of  the  blood.  Saladdin 's  words 
10  145 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

"The  young  Emperor"  and  "Con- 
stantinople" opened  a  new  field  to  her 
ambition,  and  her  vague  ideas  of  the 
liberty  of  women  among  the  Christians 
promised  her  more  than  she  could  hope 
for  in  the  Orient. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  in  silence 
looking  from  Saladdin  to  Rikaiya,  an 
insolent  defiance  in  her  eyes.  Then  as 
Mahmoud  took  her  by  the  arm  to  lead 
her  away,  she  made  a  low  and  mocking 
reverence,  as  if  taking  her  leave  of  the 
life  of  the  Orient,  and  disappeared  be- 
hind the  green  and  gold  portiere  forever. 

Rikaiya  looked  at  Saladdin  with  an 
unutterable  gratitude  in  her  beautiful 
eyes.  "Emir,"  she  said  with  some 
reluctance,  as  if  she  had  rather  leave 
the  thing  in  doubt,  "you  have  decided 
the  fate  of  this  woman ;  will  you  tell  me 
what  is  to  be  mine?  My  own  country 
is  far  away,  and  I  have  no  longer  a 
home  at  Assouan. " 

"Princess,"  said  Saladdin,  asking  a 
question  in  his  turn,  "how  long  has  AH 
Amr  been  dead?" 

146 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

"Three  weeks  yesterday,"  replied 
Rikaiya. 

"Strange!"  exclaimed  Saladdin;  "he 
died  then  on  the  same  day  as  my  Uncle 
Shiracouh.  On  the  same  day  our  forty 
days  of  mourning  will  be  accomplished, 
and  we  will  talk  of  the  future.  And  until 
then,  Princess,  you  will  honour  me  with 
your  presence  and  consider  this  palace, 
which  is  mine  by  the  favour  of  the 
Sultan,  as  your  own." 

"  I  thank  you,  Emir, "  replied  Rikaiya, 
and  she  might  have  said  more,  but  to 
her  infinite  surprise  Saladdin  took  her 
hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and  then 
withdrew. 

Once  left  alone  Rikaiya  retired  to  rest, 
but  it  was  not  till  late  in  the  night  that 
her  excitement  permitted  her  to  sleep. 
Her  interview  with  Saladdin  had  been 
one  of  the  greatest  and  most  unusual 
events  of  her  life.  Reared  like  all 
Oriental  women  of  rank  in  the  strictest 
seclusion,  she  had  known  no  men  but 
her  father,  brothers,  and  husband.  Her 
ideas  of  the  rest  of  mankind  had  been 
147 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

limited  to  glimpses  of  them  through  the 
harem  lattices;  and  Yousef  had  been 
the  first  one  outside  of  her  immediate 
family  with  whom  she  had  ever  spoken, 
and  that  through  her  veil  and  only  from 
necessity. 

And  now  she  had  received  the  visit 
of  a  young  man  and  had  conversed  with 
him,  and  he  had  seen  her  unveiled;  all 
as  she  had  heard  these  things  were  done 
among  the  Giaours.  And  yet  she  could 
not  feel  herself  to  blame.  The  law  of 
Islam  indeed  forbids  her  all  intercourse 
with  men  not  of  her  kindred,  but  an- 
other law,  as  strong,  made  a  Moslem  the 
master  of  his  own  house,  and  gave  him 
the  right  to  see  and  speak  with  any 
woman  who  happened  to  be  an  inmate 
of  his  harem,  and,  since  this  law  applied 
to  all,  no  one  could  dream  of  denying 
to  the  Governor  of  Egypt  the  freedom 
of  his  own  palace. 

And  she  had  come  here  of  her  own 
free  will  to  seek  for  justice,  and  not 
knowing  what  would  be  her  fate.  Jus- 
tice she  had  found,  but  her  destiny  was 
148 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

known  only  to  God.  She  was  a  Princess, 
but  she  knew  how  much  respect  was 
paid  among  the  Turks  to  royal  blood. 
Shiracouh,  she  knew,  had  been  a  soldier 
of  fortune,  and  his  nephew  could  be  no 
more.  She  did  not  discriminate  among 
the  Turks  and  Kurds,  but  believed  that 
they  were  all  adventurers  who  relied  not 
on  blue  blood  or  high  descent,  but  only 
on  their  swords. 

And  then  her  thoughts  returned  to  her 
husband,  whom  she  had  for  the  first  time 
forgotten.  AH  Amr  had  been  a  prince 
of  purest  Arab  blood,  of  the  tribe  of  the 
Koresh,  the  family  of  El  Hashim,  and 
more  than  all  a  Fatimite,  and  a  descend- 
ant of  the  Prophet.  He  had  been  tall 
and  handsome,  noble  in  his  manner  and 
in  his  bearing.  She  had  loved  him  for 
three  years  and  mourned  him  now, 
three  weeks.  He  had  been  untrue  to 
her  and  deserted  her  for  a  slave,  but  he 
had  repented  and  died  in  her  arms.  She 
had  forgiven  him  and,  though  dead,  she 
loved  him  still,  and  would  love  him  al- 
ways. He  had  been  a  Prince  in  every- 
149 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

thing.  But — to-night  she  had  seen 
Saladdin. 

The  next  day  mourning  garments 
were  brought  to  Rikaiya,  such  as  there 
had  been  no  time  to  procure  in  Assouan, 
garments  not  too  dismally  dark,  but 
relieved  with  silver  like  Saladdin 's  own, 
so  that  they  seemed  less  like  widow's 
weeds  than  merely  as  if  she  had,  like 
Egypt  itself,  exchanged  the  green  of  the 
Fatimites  for  the  black  of  the  Abassids. 

All  day  long  she  and  the  little  Abdul 
and  their  attendants  were  amused  by 
eunuchs  and  slaves.  They  were  shown 
all  the  apartments  of  the  harem,  the 
wonderful  gardens,  and  finally  through 
the  outer  lattices,  the  narrow  crowded 
streets  of  Cairo.  After  a  childhood 
spent  at  Yemen  and  three  years  at 
Assouan,  it  was  like  another  world. 

In  the  evening  Saladdin  repeated  his 
visit,  but  this  time,  instead  of  standing 
as  he  had  done  before,  he  seated  himself 
beside  Rikaiya,  on  the  green  and  gold 
divan,  conversed  with  her  on  various 
subjects,  and  remained  for  more  than  an 
150 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

hour.  Fatima  and  Amina  were  present 
sitting  silent  on  the  floor,  but  they 
were  never  asked  to  touch  their  lutes, 
nor  were  any  other  slaves  summoned  to 
sing  or  dance.  Saladdin  and  Rikaiya 
needed  no  amusements. 

The  third  evening  the  Princess  looked 
for  his  visit  with  an  impatience  which 
she  did  not  seek  to  explain  to  herself. 
Nor  did  he  keep  her  waiting,  but  came 
sooner  and  stayed  longer  than  the  even- 
ing before.  The  fourth  and  fifth,  the 
sixth  and  seventh  evenings  were  all  alike, 
and  yet  each  one  was  longer  and  more 
sweet.  Rikaiya  wore  the  mourning 
garments,  but  the  silver  which  glittered 
through  their  blackness  found  its  re- 
flection in  her  heart. 
She  had  mourned  three  weeks  for  Ali 
Amr,  and  might  have  mourned  him  al- 
ways, but  the  charm  of  Saladdin  was  too 
great!  That  charm  (which  never  failed 
to  conquer  even  his  enemies),  here  in 
this  green  and  gold  apartment,  by  the 
light  of  silver  lamps,  and  the  sweet  scent 
of  incense,  made  him  irresistible.    Gradu- 

151 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites  ' 

ally  the  image  of  the  Fatimite  Prince, 
which  she  had  thought  to  keep  always 
in  her  heart,  was  replaced  by  that  of 
the  Kurdish  soldier.  On  the  seventh 
night,  the  moon  was  full  again,  and 
Ali  Amr's  infidelity  had  cost  him  more 
than  life  alone :  he  was  not  dead  only, 
but  forgotten. 

The  time  passed  on  and  the  forty  days 
of  mourning  ran  out.  On  the  forty- 
first,  Rikaiya  laid  her  black  robes  aside, 
and  there  were  brought  to  her,  in  a  box 
of  sandalwood,  two  costumes,  the  richest 
that  oriental  fancy  could  devise.  One, 
lilac  embroidered  in  gold ;  and  the  other, 
rose  thickly  sown  with  pearls.  Rikaiya 
attired  herself  in  the  lilac  robe  and  decked 
herself  with  all  her  jewels,  and  when 
at  the  usual  hour  Saladdin  entered  her 
apartment,  the  splendour  of  her  beauty 
was  like  the  rising  sun. 

Saladdin,  too,  had  laid  aside  his  mourn- 
ing, but  his  taste  was  always  for  the 
sombre.  A  caftan  of  deep  blue  and 
silver  replaced  the  black  one,  and  the 
only  real  change  was  an  aigrette  of 
152 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

diamonds  which  sparkled  in  his  cap. 
Rikaiya  rose  to  meet  him  at  his  entrance, 
and  for  the  second  time  he  took  her  hand 
and  pressed  it  to  his  Hps. 

"Princess,"  he  said,  "the  days  of 
mourning   are   accompHshed. " 

"Yes,"  replied  Rikaiya,  "and  I  have 
to  thank  you,  Saladdin  Emir,  for  all 
your  kindness  and  hospitality. " 

"Nay,  Princess,"  said  Saladdin,  "it  is 
you  who  have  honoured  this  palace  with 
your  presence.  You  are  the  daughter  of 
a  Sultan  and  the  widow  of  a  Prince. 
There  are  none  here  who  equal  or  ap- 
proach your  rank." 

"Birth  is  the  gift  of  God,  Emir," 
replied  the  Princess,  "and  therefore  to 
be  prized,  but  there  are  other  gifts 
greater  than  royal  blood. " 

At  these  words  Saladdin  flushed  with 
pleasure.  "Princess,"  he  said,  "I  need 
not  tell  you  that  the  Prophet  has  for- 
bidden a  young  woman  to  remain  a 
widow  after  the  time  he  has  fixed,  the 
forty  days  of  mourning  for  the  dead." 

He  paused,  but  his  eyes  rested  on 
153 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

Rikaiya,  and  told  her  all  that  he  could 
have  said.     Love  needs  no  words. 

"Rikaiya,"  he  said  at  last,  "will  you 
go  back  to  Yemen,  or  will  you  stay 
with  me?" 

Love  takes  courage  from  a  man  and 
gives  it  to  a  woman.  Rikaiya  looked 
at  him  and  answered,  "  I  will  stay  with 
you,  Saladdin  Emir. " 

The  silence  was  broken,  the  reserve 
of  days  and  weeks  melted  like  mist 
before  the  rising  sun.  The  Kurdish  sol- 
dier took  the  Arab  Princess  in  his  arms, 
and  rank  and  race,  and  the  whole  world 
besides,  were  forgotten  in  their  first  kiss. 

On  the  third  day  the  nuptials  of 
Saladdin  and  Rikaiya  were  celebrated 
with  all  the  splendour  of  the  Orient. 
The  streets  of  Cairo  were  hung  with 
coloured  lanterns  and  in  the  blue  Egyp- 
tian sky  shone  the  New  Moon  .  .  .  the 
New  Moon,  which,  like  the  Phoenix, 
and  the  Soul,  rises  immortal  from  its 
own  extinction. 

The  full  orb  had  marked  the  end  of 
Rikaiya's  first  life  and  love,  and  now  the 
154 


The  Last  of  the  Fatimites 

crescent  lit  her  to  new  hope  and  happi- 
ness. ALLAH  ILLAH  ALLAH,  MOHAMMED 
ER   RAZUL   ALLAH ! 

The  history  of  Saladdin  is  too  well 
known  to  need  repetition.  Gifted  with 
genius  and  valour,  which  made  him  the 
hero  of  his  time,  his  rise  to  power  was  as 
sudden  and  brilliant  as  that  of  the 
meteor  which  flashes  into  life  from 
nowhere  and  illuminates  the  whole 
heavens  with  its  light. 

Rikaiya  had  given  her  hand  and  heart 
to  a  soldier  of  fortune.  A  few  years 
later  she  found  herself  the  consort  of  the 
first  sovereign  of  the  age — Saladdin,  the 
all-powerful  Sultan  of  the  Turks;  Salad- 
din whose  fame  so  long  outlives  him 
that,  after  the  lapse  of  seven  centuries, 
he  is  still  a  bright  star  in  history !  ^ 

>  See  Appendix  II. 


155 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 


157 


THE  NEW  MOON  OF  ISLAM 
I 

THE  setting  sun  trailed  his  long 
golden  rays  over  the  green  Bul- 
garian hills,  and  the  evening  breeze 
brought  with  it  the  scent  of  blossoms 
and  the  perfume  of  the  yellow  locust,  the 
sweetness  of  the  Balkan  spring.  Na- 
ture had  made  beautiful  the  scene  and 
the  hour,  but  man  has  spoiled  her  work. 
The  storks  had  left  their  happy  feeding 
grounds  and  already  the  vultures  came 
screaming  in  their  place,  and  their 
feast  was  ready,  for  far  and  near,  among 
blood-stained  grass  and  trampled  flow- 
ers, lay  the  corpses  of  horses  and  men. 
It  was  the  evening  of  the  battle  of 
Varna,  the  29th  of  May  1444,  a  day 
memorable  in  the  history  of  the  Hun- 
garians and  the  Turks.  The  war  be- 
159 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

tween  these  two  nations  had  been  ended, 
and  the  great  and  ever-victorious  Murad 
had  agreed  to  a  treaty  of  peace,  when  he 
might  have  pursued  his  conquests  into 
the  heart  of  Hungary;  for  it  has  been 
truly  said  by  his  enemies  as  well  as  his 
friends,  that  Murad  II.  never  made  war 
except  in  a  just  cause,  and  sheathed  his 
sword  in  the  moment  of  victory. 

Secure  in  the  belief  that  peace  was 
established,  Murad  withdrew  his  vic- 
torious army  to  Magnesia,  leaving  only 
the  necessary  garrisons  of  his  Balkan 
fortresses  behind.  But  hardly  was  his 
back  turned  when  evil  and  ambitious 
councillors  surrounded  the  young  King 
of  Hungary,  French  adventurers  eager 
for  the  spoils  of  war,  the  dark  and  wily 
Cardinal  Julian,  and  the  brave  and 
ambitious  John  Hunyadi,  whose  later 
greatness  has  caused  his  share  in  the 
treachery  to  be  almost  forgotten. 

"Now,"  they  said,  "Murad  is  gone  to 

Magnesia,  and  with  him  his  army.     His 

Balkan  provinces  are  at  our  mercy,  let 

us  invade  them,  and  we  will  make  them 

1 60 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

ours.  Ladislaus  shall  be  King  of  Bulgaria 
and  Servia  as  well  as  of  Hungary!" 

Murad  had  never  broken  a  treaty  or 
his  word.  Truth  was  indeed  the  undeni- 
able merit  and  custom  of  the  Turks, 
which  since  the  beginning  of  their 
history,  when  Disabul  had  sent  word  to 
Justinian  that  the  Turks  could  neither 
utter  nor  forgive  a  lie,  had  not  changed. 

But  the  Christians  had  often  broken 
theirs,  and  the  plea  so  often  used  was 
urged  again,  that  it  was  not  necessary  to 
keep  faith  with  infidels.  The  councils 
were  specious  and  tempting;  Ladislaus 
was  young  and  hot  blooded ;  he  listened 
and  fell.  With  a  gallant  and  glittering 
army,  he  crossed  the  Danube  and  pur- 
sued his  way  unhindered  down  through 
the  Servian  and  Bulgarian  valleys  almost 
to  the  Black  Sea;  almost,  but  the  news 
had  followed  and  overtaken  Murad 
before  he  reached  Magnesia.  He  turned 
back  and  met  Ladislaus  at  Varna,  carry- 
ing on  a  lance  in  the  front  of  his  army 
"the  broken  treaty." 

The  surprise  of  the  Hungarians  and 
II  i6i 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

French  served  only  to  increase  their 
courage,  and  they  threw  themselves  on 
their  enemies  with  such  irresistible  force 
that  their  cavalry,  at  the  head  of  which 
rode  Ladislaus  himself,  cut  their  way 
into  the  heart  of  the  Turkish  army. 
The  Irregulars  were  scattered  like  chaff 
before  the  wind.  The  Janissaries^  them- 
selves gave  way,  and  for  a  moment  all 
seemed  lost.  Then  Murad,  thinking 
always  of  the  broken  treaty,  called 
upon  Jesus  Himself  to  avenge  the  mock- 
ery of  his  name  and  religion.  And 
immediately  the  fortune  of  the  battle 
changed. 

The  dashing  charge  of  the  Hungarians 
had  carried  them  too  far.  The  Turks  re- 
covering themselves  from  the  onslaught 
closed  in  on  them  on  every  side.  A 
javelin  thrown,  it  is  said  by  Murad 
himself,  brought  Ladislaus's  horse  to 
the  ground.  The  Janissaries  crowded 
round   him,    and   a   moment   later    his 


>  The  Turkish  spelling  is  Jeni  Cheri  (new 
troops) . 

162 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

head  was  shown  to  his  soldiers  on  a 
lance,  his  slayer  exclaiming:  "Hunga- 
rians, behold  the  head  of  your  King. " 

A  general  mel^e  followed,  and  the 
flower  of  the  Hungarian  army  was  left 
dead  on  the  field.  John  Hunyadi  and 
Cardinal  Julian  escaped  with  a  remnant 
of  that  splendid  host.  The  Cardinal 
was  murdered,  as  he  fled,  by  one  of  his 
soldiers  who  was  prompted  to  this  act 
because  he  knew  that  the  churchman's 
pockets  were  filled  with  gold,  but  Hun- 
yadi made  good  his  flight,  and  lived 
to  fight  on  many  another  day. 

The  Balkans  were  reconquered,  but 
the  Turks  had  also  suffered  a  heavy  loss, 
and  the  grief  of  the  Sultan  for  his 
soldiers  was  mingled  with  a  generous 
regret  for  the  young  King  of  Hungary. 
Forgetting  the  treachery  of  his  foe, 
and  remembering  only  his  courage, 
Murad  erected  a  column  to  the  memory 
of  Ladislaus  on  the  field  of  Varna. 

Parties  of  Kurds,  Armenians,  and 
natives  of  Asia  Minor  were  scattered 
over  the  field  collecting  the  spoils  of  the 
163 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

dead,  booty  which  the  haughty  Janis- 
saries scorned,  and  which  was  always 
abandoned  to  the  irregular  troops. 
Some  had  pursued  the  fugitives  up  the 
valley  and  returned  with  occasional 
prisoners,  waifs,  and  strays  which  the 
tide  of  battle  had  left  behind.  One 
such  party  brought  with  them  a  young 
woman  and  a  child.  The  former,  in  the 
full  bloom  of  youth  and  beauty,  wore 
the  graceful  holiday  dress  of  a  Servian 
peasant,  the  white  muslin  skirt  and 
blouse  striped  with  pink  and  gold,  and 
the  close-fitting  black  vest  embroidered 
in  silver.  The  silver  clasp  of  her  girdle, 
and  the  amber  beads  around  her  neck 
had  not  been  disturbed,  but  her  cap  and 
veil  had  fallen  off,  and  their  absence  dis- 
played a  wealth  of  golden  hair,  which 
belonged  rather  on  the  shores  of  the 
Baltic  than  on  those  of  the  Black  Sea. 
The  child,  a  girl  of  three  years,  which 
she  carried  in  her  arms  was  the  counter- 
part of  herself,  and  the  two  formed  a  rich 
and  imhoped  for  prize. 

The  soldiers  were  discussing  among 
164 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

themselves  how  they  could  most  quickly 
dispose  of  their  captives,  when  the 
question  was  answered  by  the  appear- 
ance on  the  scene  of  a  Greek,  who 
followed  the  army  and  who  was  well 
known  as  a  purchaser  of  female  captives. 
The  bargain  was  made,  the  soldiers  had 
no  means  of  transporting  their  prizes, 
and  wished  to  see  their  value  in  ready 
money,  and  almost  before  the  young 
woman  knew  what  had  happened,  she 
had  changed  owners. 

Leaving  the  battle-field,  the  Greek 
led  her  by  a  path  between  the  hills  to 
where  the  Turkish  camp  was  being 
hastily  constructed,  and  to  his  own  tent 
which  was  already  firmly  fixed,  for  not 
being  a  fighting  man  he  had  been  able 
to  devote  more  time  to  its  erection. 
An  old  Greek  woman  and  a  negro  slave 
were  seated  at  the  door  of  the  tent.  The 
woman  whom  the  Greek  saluted  as 
mother  arose  and  went  with  them  inside 
the  tent,  where  she  set  food  before  the 
captives,  olives  and  bread  and  wine. 
The  Greek,  whose  name  was  Cymon, 
165 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

then  tried  to  learn  something  from  the 
young  woman  regarding  herself.  Having 
accosted  her  in  Greek  and  Turkish  with- 
out eliciting  a  reply  he  spoke  to  her  in 
Italian,  which  language  she  understood; 
and  he  was  soon  in  possession  of  her 
history. 

She  was  a  native  of  Pomerania,  and 
had  followed  her  husband,  a  German 
adventurer,  to  Italy,  where  he  had 
fought  under  one  standard  and  another. 
They  had  led  a  wandering  life  between 
the  cities  and  the  camps,  till  chance  had 
brought  them  in  the  train  of  a  French 
count  to  Hungary.  This  was  their 
first  battle  in  the  Hungarian  service, 
and  such  a  one  as  they  had  never  seen 
before,  for  in  Italy  war  (being  carried 
on  by  mercenaries  who  had  nothing  at 
stake  but  their  pay)  was,  as  the  young 
woman  observed,  mere  play,  but  here 
it  was  deadly  earnest. 

Her  life  had,  she  admitted,  been  a 

hard  one,  but  full  of  excitement  which 

she  liked,  and  all  lives  had  their  good 

times  and  their  bad.     Her  husband,  she 

1 66 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

feared,  had  been  killed.  She  had 
searched  the-  battte-field,  and  had  not 
found  him ;  had  he  been  living,  she  knew 
he  woiild  never  have  fled  and  left  her 
behind.  Here  her  story  ended  with  a 
burst  of  tears.  Her  name  was  Minna 
and  the  child's  name  was  Violetta,  a 
name  which  she  had  learned  in  Italy 
where  she  was  born. 

It  grew  dark,  and  the  old  woman 
lighted  the  lamps  which  hung  round 
the  pole  of  the  tent.  Minna  gradually 
stopped  crying,  and  began  to  sing  to  her 
child  an  old  German  song  whose  mono- 
tonous rhythm  soon  put  her  to  sleep. 
Whereupon,  after  holding  her  awhile  in 
her  arms,  she  laid  her  down  on  some 
cushions  in  a  corner.  Scarcely  had  she 
done  so  when  the  curtains  of  the  tent 
were  thrown  back,  and  the  negro  ex- 
claimed in  a  tone  of  suppressed  excite- 
ment, "  Nizameddin  Bey!" 

Cymon  sprang  forward  to  receive  with 

due    respect    his    distinguished    visitor, 

and  there  entered  a  young  man,  whose 

beauty  and  noble  bearing  so  astonished 

167 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

Minna,  who  had  been  taught  that  the 
Turks  were  monsters,  that  for  the  mo- 
ment she  forgot  everything  else  and  gazed 
at  him  in  silent  wonder.  Nizameddin 
Bey  was  tall  and  graceful  with  the  grace 
of  the  Orient;  he  wore  a  white  turban 
round  his  helmet,  and  his  robe  of  crimson 
and  gold  brocade  was  thrown  back, 
disclosing  a  suit  of  silvered  mail  of 
Damascus  workmanship,  and  the  hilt  of 
a  jewelled  scimiter.  His  black  eyes, 
full  of  fire,  were  turned  at  once  to  Minna 
and  rested  on  her  with  a  look  of  delight 
which  at  once  pleased  and  frightened 
her.  He  began  to  speak  to  Cymon  in 
Turkish. 

"  The  eagles  first, "  he  said,  "  and  the 
vultures  afterwards.  The  Turk  has 
fought  the  battle,  and  again  the  sly 
Greek  has  carried  off  the  fairest 
prize." 

"Ah,  Bey  Effendi, "  replied  Cymon, 
"the  Turk  is  a  soldier,  but  the  Greek 
is  a  man  of  commerce  and  trade.  You 
win  wealth  with  the  sword,  but  we  earn 
it  peacefully  on  the  counter  and  scales. 
1 68 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

My  slave   meets   with   my   Lord's   ap- 
probation?" 

"  Yes,  she  is  beautiful  and  a  type  that 
I  do  not  know.  Surely  not  a  Servian 
peasant,  though  in  the  dress?" 

"No,  Bey  Effendi,  she  is  a  German, 
from  the  far  shores  of  the  Baltic,  a 
woman  of  the  north  whose  youth  and 
beauty  will  not  fade. " 

The  Bey  interrupted  him  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand.  "Your  price?"  he 
said. 

"  One  hundred  Turkish  pounds. " 

"And  you  bought  her  for  twenty. 
Our  proverb  says  truly:  'One  Jew  is 
worth  seven  Greeks.' " 

"Yes,  Bey  Effendi,  and  the  proverb 
says  also,  'one  Greek  is  worth  seven 
Armenians,'  rejoice  then  that  I  am  only 
a  Greek." 

Nizameddin  Bey  laughed.  "Talking 
is  your  own  art,"  he  said.  Then  he 
added:  "Well,  I  will  pay  your  price." 
Suddenly  his  eye  fell  upon  the  sleeping 
child.  "And  that  is  included  in  the 
sum?" 

169 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

"No,  Bey  Effendi, "  said  Cymon 
hastily,  "the  child  is  not  for  sale." 

"It  must  be.  It  is  the  law  of  the 
Prophet  that  in  the  sale  of  captives  the 
mother  must  never  be  separated  from 
the  child." 

"Ah,  Bey  Effendi,  that  is  a  law  for 
you;  but  not  for  me,  I  am  a  Christian." 

"You  are  a  dog,"  said  Nizameddin. 
"The  Christian  religion  teaches  the 
principles  of  humanity  also,  only  by 
such  as  you  are  they  disregarded. 
Ladislaus  disregarded  his  treaty,  and  his 
treachery  has  cost  him  his  life. " 

Cymon  turned  pale  and  began  to  whine 
and  beg  the  Bey  Effendi  not  to  ask  for 
the  child  on  which  he  hoped  one  day 
to  make  his  fortune.  Suddenly  he  was 
interrupted  by  Minna,  who  seeming  to 
grasp  by  instinct  the  import  of  the  scene 
rose  from  her  place  and  throwing  herself 
on  her  knees  before  the  Bey  implored 
him,  if  he  took  her  to  take  also  her  child. 
Nizameddin  looked  at  her  with  flashing 
eyes,  and  to  her  astonishment  answered 
her  in  a  few  words  of  Italian,  bidding  her 
170 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

to  be  of  good  cheer  and  that  she  should 
keep  her  child.  Minna's  eyes  filled 
with  tears  of  joy,  and  seizing  the  Turk's 
hand,  she  kissed  it  again  and  again. 

Nizameddin  smiled  and  then,  turning 
again  to  Cymon  said:  "Call  my  servant; 
you  shall  have  the  gold  at  once,  a  hun- 
dred Turkish  pounds  for  the  mother 
and  child. " 

Cymon  unheeding  the  command  con- 
tinued to  whine  and  beg  the  Bey  Effendi 
to  consider,  but  the  old  woman  went 
hastily  to  the  door  and  called  in  the  Bey 
Effendi's  slave,  a  stalwart  Nubian,  who 
carried  his  master's  purse,  a  large  bag 
of  knitted  silk  strung  with  coral,  through 
whose  meshes  came  the  gleam  of  gold. 

"  A  hundred  pounds, "  said  Nizameddin, 
and  the  slave  counted  the  sum  carefully 
out  on  a  tray  which  stood  on  a  folding 
stool.  Cymon  still  paid  no  attention, 
but  the  old  woman  who  watched  the  gold 
pieces  as  a  cat  watches  a  mouse,  seized 
them  at  last  in  her  claw-like  fingers  and 
plunged  them  into  a  leather  bag  which 
hung  at  her  side.  Then  she  went  to  the 
171 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

bed,  and  taking  up  the  sleeping  child  laid 
her  in  Minna's  arms,  and  signed  to  her 
to  go.  But  Minna  stood  still,  not  know- 
ing what  to  do  until  the  Bey  took  her 
by  the  hand  and  led  her  out  of  the  tent. 

Then  indeed  Cymon  threw  himself 
on  the  ground  and  screamed  with  rage. 
"He  has  robbed  me,"  he  cried,  "he  has 
robbed  me;  it  is  always  so,  the  Turk 
always  tramples  on  and  despoils  the 
Greek;  that  child  would  have  made  my 
fortune, "  and  he  ended  with  a  volley  of 
oaths. 

"Be  quiet,"  hissed  his  mother,  "or 
something  worse  will  happen  to  you. 
You  know  the  Turk,  and  you  know  he 
will  take  what  he  wants,  and  none  can 
withstand  him.  Look  at  the  King  of 
Hungary  lying  dead  on  the  field,  and  be 
glad  that  the  Bey  has  paid  you  the  hun- 
dred pounds.  That  gives  you  eighty 
pounds  profit,  a  good  day's  work,  a 
good  day's  work." 

And  outside  Nizameddin  paused,  and 
holding  Minna's  hand  in  his,  pointed 
to  the  east  where  in  the  soft,  clear,  blue 
172 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

sky,  glimmered  the  silver  crescent  of  the 
new  moon. 

"Look, "  he  said,  "the  moon  of  Islam. 
To-day  you  have  lost  all  that  made  your 
life ;  from  a  free  woman  you  are  now  a 
slave.  But  fear  not,  as  the  crescent 
rises  in  the  East  and  silvers  the  world 
with  its  light,  so  a  new  life  begins  for 
you  to-night." 

Minna  looked  at  him  in  wonder  and 
in  admiration  (for  what  woman  can 
resist  beauty  combined  with  chivalry?). 
Was  this  the  Turk  whom  she  had  been 
taught  to  dread,  the  infidel  with  whom 
one  need  hold  no  faith?  Her  husband 
had  been  a  Christian  and  a  German  like 
herself,  but  never  had  he  been  a  hand- 
some and  gallant  gentleman  like  this, 
and  sometimes  he  had  beaten  her  when 
he  was  in  wine.  Still  she  had  loved 
him  or  thought  so,  which  with  so  many 
women  is  the  same. 

But  now  he  was  dead  or  at  least  dead 
to  her,  and  her  life  was  changed  for  the 
worse,  or  was  it  for  the  better?  Un- 
consciously she  embraced  the  first 
173 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

principle  of  Islam  resignation  to  the 
will  of  God.  Minna  knew  no  logic,  but 
one  thing  she  knew,  the  Greek  would 
have  robbed  her  of  her  child,  and  the 
Turk  had  given  it  back  to  her.  That 
was  enough!  and  as  the  Bey's  black  eyes 
met  hers,  she  smiled.  And  he  under- 
stood at  once  the  workings  of  her  simple 
mind  and,  stooping  suddenly,  kissed  her 
ripe  red  lips. 

The  sound  of  Turkish  music  reached 
them,  wild  and  sweet.  Lanterns  flashed 
like  fireflies  through  the  night.  The  air 
was  soft  and  laden  with  the  perfume 
of  the  yellow  locust,  and  over  all  shone 
the  new  moon  of  Islam. 


II 


Thirteen  years  had  passed  since  the 
battle  of  Varna,  and  again  it  was 
the  month  of  May.  Again  the  yel- 
low locusts  were  in  blossom,  and  the 
meadows  full  of  flowers,  but  the  world 
was  changed.  The  sword  of  Murad  had 
been  sheathed,  and  Murad  was  in  the 
174 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

tomb  while  a  greater  reigned  in  his 
stead!  The  Greek  Empire  was  a  thing 
of  the  past,  and  the  seventy  Emperors 
of  the  East,  of  whom  one  was  both  great 
and  good,  had  fretted  through  their  parts 
and  dragged  them  out  for  more  than 
eleven  hundred  years,  and  were  all  gone 
to  the  shades  at  last.  Four  years  ago 
Constantine  the  Thirteenth  and  last,  had 
wound  up  the  long  r61e.  Mohammed 
the  Second  had  taken  Constantinople; 
and  in  what  had  been  for  centuries, 
the  capital  of  Christendom  and  of  the 
world,  the  cross  had  given  place  to  the 
crescent,  and  the  Empire  of  Constantine 
the  First  was  the  prize  of  the  victorious 
Turks. 

Santa  Sophia  was  now  a  mosque,  but 
the  Sultan  had  disdained  the  palaces  of 
the  Emperors,  stained  with  so  many 
crimes,  and  so  much  blood,  and  while  the 
Serail  was  in  construction,  resided  prin- 
cipally as  before,  at  Adrianople  in  his 
wonderful  palace  of  Jehan  Numa  (the 
watch-tower  of  the  world).  But  now 
he  was  on  the  Bosphorus  and  living  in  a 
175 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

kiosk  on  the  mountain  above  Soutari 
on  the  Asiatic  shore,  a  kiosk  which 
has  long  since  disappeared,  but  on 
whose  site  now  stands  the  white  palace 
of  Prince  Yousef  Ezeddin. 

It  was  the  hour  of  noon.  The  Sultan 
had  ridden  out  with  his  train  in  the 
morning  and  had  not  yet  returned,  and 
a  dreamy  stillness  brooded  over  the 
golden  kiosk.  In  the  anteroom  over- 
looking the  court-yard,  a  few  eunuchs 
and  pages  were  lounging,  and  by  a 
window  stood  a  man  in  Greek  costume 
in  whom  we  meet  again  the  slave  dealer, 
Cymon.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  a 
group  in  the  court-yard  below.  A  black 
slave,  his  own,  whom  we  have  seen  at 
Varna  holding  the  bridle  of  an  ass,  on 
which  sat  a  woman  wrapped  in  a  black 
ferejeh  and  shrouded,  all  but  her  eyes, 
in  what  is  now  known  as  the  Persian 
veil,  thick  and  black  as  night. 

So  absorbed  was  he  that  he  started 

violently  when  some  one  touched  him 

on  the  arm  and  called  his  name.     It 

was  a  black  slave,  and  as  the  Greek's 

176 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

memory  was  good,  a  moment's  scrutiny 
told  him  who  he  was,  the  favourite  slave 
of  Nizameddin  Bey. 

"  Well, "  he  said,  "  Halim,  how  fares  it 
with  you?     It  is  long  since  w^e  met." 

"Good,"  replied  the  slave,  "my 
master  is  in  favour  with  the  Sultan,  and 
I  am  in  favour  with  my  master.  You 
and  I  met  last  at  Varna." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Cymon,  "many 
things  are  changed  since  then.  But  tell 
me — I  sold  your  master  a  slave  then,  a 
woman  of  the  Franks;  what  has  become 
of  her?" 

"  Oh,"  said  the  slave,  "  you  did  her  a 
great  service  when  you  sold  her  to  my 
master.  He  made  her  his  wife  soon 
afterwards,  and  he  has  taken  no  other. 
She  is  beautiful,  and  her  beauty  does  not 
fade,  and  he  still  loves  her  as  at  first." 

"  Has  she  borne  him  children?  " 

"  Yes,  three,  our  Selim  Bey  is  twelve 
years  old  and  Nazli  Hanoum  is  nine, 
and  little  Edhem  Bey  is  five.  God  has 
smiled  on  my  master  in  everything." 

"  And,"  said  Cymon,  "  she  had  a  child, 
la  177 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

whom  Nizameddin  Bey  took  from  me,  a 
little  girl." 

"  Yes,  poor  child,  I  think  it  was  nine 
years  ago,  we  were  at  my  master's  house 
at  Broussa,  and  she  was  playing  in  the 
garden,  and  what  happened  we  do  not 
know,  but  she  must  have  fallen  into 
the  water  and  been  swept  away,  for 
we  never  found  her.  And  the  same 
day  our  little  Lady  Nazli  was  born,  so 
Allah  took  away  one  daughter  from  my 
mistress  and  gave  her  another;  wonder- 
ful are  the  ways  of  Allah! " 

Cymon  smiled  a  strange  smile,  and 
rubbed  his  hands  as  at  some  pleasing 
recollection,  and  at  this  moment  the 
door  opened,  and  no  less  a  personage 
than  the  Kisslar  Aga  entered  the  room. 
Every  one  rose  and  bowed  profoundly, 
and  C3nnon  striding  hastily  forward 
seized  the  black  hand  which  glittered 
with  jewels,  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

The    Kisslar    Aga    was    tall    and    of 

majestic    bearing,    with    an    intelligent 

countenance,  bright  black  eyes,  and  on 

each  cheek  the  three  scars,  which  are  the 

178 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

mark  of  an  Ethiopian  slave.  He  wore  a 
long  robe  of  blue  satin  embroidered  in 
silver,  a  jewelled  girdle  and  dagger,  a 
double  chain  of  sequins  round  his  neck, 
and  a  turban  of  spotless  white. 

"Well,  Cymon, "  he  said,  "have  you 
brought  me  your  pearl  of  beauty?" 

"  Yes,  Aga  Effendi,  may  your  years 
be  a  thousand  and  full  of  honours.  She 
waits,  well  guarded,  in  the  court-yard 
below. " 

"It  is  well,"  said  the  Kisslar  Aga. 
"  I  had  promised  her  to  the  Padishah 
this  evening.  Our  Lady  Sultana  is  in 
Adrianople,  and  there  is  great  lack  of 
beauty  in  the  golden  kiosk." 

"That  lack  shall  be  no  longer,"  said 
Cymon,  and  going  to  the  window  he 
signalled  to  his  slave  below,  and  in  a 
few  moments  he  and  his  veiled  charge 
appeared  in  the  anteroom. 

"  There,  Prince  of  Agas,  you  have  seen 
and  know  what  a  rose  among  maidens 
I  bring  you;  truly  you  buy  her  cheaply, 
for  she  is  worth  her  weight  in  gold. " 

The  Kisslar  Aga  did  not  answer  this 
179 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

remark,  but  turning  to  a  slave  who 
followed  him,  took  from  him  a  bag  of 
gold  and  handed  it  to  C)mion,  and  gave 
him  his  hand  again  to  kiss.  This  the 
Greek  did  with  great  devotion,  and  many 
protestations  of  eternal  fidelity  to  his 
service,  and  prayers  that  he  might  be 
recommended  to  the  Padishah. 

The  Kisslar  Aga  accustomed  to  adu- 
lation at  length  drew  his  hand  away, 
and  with  a  gracious  word  or  two  of  leave- 
taking,  took  his  new  purchase,  who  re- 
mained perfectly  silent  and  motionless, 
by  the  hand,  and  led  her  out  of  the  room. 

And  now  Cymon's  hour  had  come. 
Approaching  the  slave  of  Nizameddin 
Bey,  he  whispered  in  his  ear:  "  I  have  a 
,  message  for  your  master.  Tell  him  that 
C)anon,  the  Greek,  has  just  sold  to  the 
Sultan  the  most  beautiful  maid  in  Con- 
stantinople. The  portiere  of  the  Sul- 
tan's private  apartments  has  fallen 
behind  her,  and  her  price  is  in  Cymon's 
hands.  Tell  him  that  her  name  is 
Violetta,  and  that  she  is  that  child 
whom  he  took  from  me  unjustly  at 
1 80 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

Varna,  that  she  was  not  drowned  at 
Broussa,  but  that  Cymon  took  back  his 
own.  The  Turk  is  a  soldier,  but  the 
Greek  is  a  man  of  business,  courage 
conquers  in  the  beginning,  but  wit  and 
wisdom  in  the  end." 

"  It  will  not  be  well  for  you  when  my 
master  hears  this,"  said  the  slave. 

"  I  fear  not,  he  may  seek  me,  but  he 
will  not  find  me.  You  know  the  saying, 
'The  Turk  to  fight— the  Greek  to  run 
away.'  Give  him  my  message;  I  have 
waited  long  for  my  revenge,  but  I  have, 
it  at  last." 

Ill 

In  the  golden  kiosk,  the  last  room  of 
the  Sultan's  apartments  hung  like  a 
lantern  of  rainbow  glass  far  out  in  the 
air,  its  crescent  curve  of  windows  com- 
manding the  East,  South,  and  West. 
The  walls  of  this  apartment  were  tiled 
half  way  up,  those  green  and  white  tiles 
always  precious,  and  now,  alas,  so  rare. 

The  upper  half  was  stuccoed  in 
i8i 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

arabesques  of  crimson  and  gold,  which 
were  repeated  in  the  ceiling  with  a  cor- 
nice of  honeycomb  cells.  A  magnifi- 
cent Persian  carpet  covered  the  floor, 
and  a  divan  ran  around  under  the  win- 
dows covered  with  crimson  embroidered 
in  gold.  At  one  end  of  the  divan  stood 
a  richly  inlaid  reading-desk,  holding  an 
illuminated  copy  of  the  Koran,  and  at 
the  other  a  small  table  of  the  same  work- 
manship, on  which  stood  a  silver  dish  of 
fruit,  a  tall  enamelled  flacon,  an  enamel 
cup,  and  a  crystal  bowl  full  of  red  roses. 
At  the  lower  end  of  the  room  two  chests 
of  black  carved  oak,  evidently  the  spoil 
of  some  Greek  sacristy,  flanked  the 
arched  door,  which  was  hung  with  a 
portifere  of  crimson  and  gold.  From 
the  ceiling,  suspended  by  crimson  cords, 
hung  five  silver  lamps. 

The  windows  which  were  glass  ara- 
besques and  seemed,  when  the  sun 
shone  through  them,  mosaics  of  jewels, 
were  now  all  open  to  the  evening  air. 
At  one  which  faced  the  west,  a  tall 
graceful  figure  half  stood,  half  knelt, 
182 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

on  the  divan,  watching  the  sunset.  He 
was  a  young  man  in  his  twenty-seventh 
year  with  all  the  fire  of  youth,  the  vigour 
of  a  pure  and  noble  race,  and  that  high 
consciousness  of  power  which  a  sover- 
eign absolute,  whose  word  is  life  or  death, 
alone  can  feel.  A  Sultan  by  birth,  and 
soldier  and  leader  of  men  by  the  gift  of 
God,  Mohammed  the  Second  stood  on  a 
pinnacle  of  glory  which  it  has  seldom 
been  the  fate  of  man  to  reach. 

Here  in  the  silence  of  his  own  apart- 
ments, armour  and  weapons  laid  aside, 
the  Sultan  was  attired  in  a  long  robe  of 
brocade  of  green  and  silver,  so  brilliant 
that  it  seemed  a  tissue  of  emeralds  and 
diamonds.  In  his  jewelled  girdle  was 
visible  that  dagger  which  may  be  seen 
in  the  treasury  to-day,  the  handle  of 
which  is  a  solid  mass  of  diamonds  and 
the  end  one  great  emerald.  He  wore  a 
turban  of  India  muslin  clasped  in  front 
with  the  Imperial  aigrette;  a  collar  of 
diamonds  and  emeralds  encircled  his 
neck,  and  on  his  right  hand  sparkled  one 
jewel  alone,  his  signet  ring.  But  all 
183 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

this  splendour  was  subordinate  to  the 
majesty  of  the  Sultan's  presence,  and 
the  jewels  themselves  were  subdued 
by  the  light  and  fire  of  the  Sultan's 
eyes. 

Mohammed's  mother  had  been  a 
Servian  princess,  his  father  represented 
the  best  blood  of  the  Turks,  and  yet  he 
in  form  and  feature  seemed  an  Arab 
of  that  type,  free  and  desert-born,  than 
which  the  world  can  show  none  more 
manly  or  more  perfect.  The  nose  was 
aquiline,  the  chin  strong  and  noble,  the 
mouth  firm  and  beautiful,  and  the  black 
eyes  like  stars,  whose  glance  could 
pierce,  it  seemed,  through  armour  or  the 
heart.  Every  feature  indicated  the  Arab, 
and  Mohammed  the  Second  might  have 
been  one  of  the  early  khalifs  come  to 
life  again,  a  man  not  only  bom  a  king, 
but  cast  by  nature  in  her  most  kingly 
mould. 

The  scene  below  him  riveted  the  Sul- 
tan's gaze.  Dark  cypress  woods  de- 
scended from  the  kiosk  to  the  sparkling 
waters  of  the  Bosphorus,  on  whose 
184 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

other  shore,  among  cypress  trees  again, 
his  new  palace  rose  as  if  by  magic  on 
the  ruins  of  that  which  had  been  the 
palace  of  the  Caesars.  Behind  loomed 
Santa  Sophia,  with  the  seven  domes  of 
Justinian  and  the  four  minarets  of 
Mohammed,  on  which  glittered  four 
golden  crescents.  The  greatest  church 
the  Christian  world  had  known,  a 
mosque!  The  cross  supplanted  by  the 
new  moon  of  Islam!  And  as  Moham- 
med's eyes  rested  upon  the  emblems  of 
his  faith,  they  flashed  with  pleasure, 
for  the  love  of  his  religion  burned  in  his 
heart,  and  he  held  no  conquest  greater 
than  that  of  Santa  Sophia. 

Beyond  all  this,  behind  the  cypresses 
and  the  almond,  and  the  Judas,  trees  in 
bloom,  the  sea  of  Marmora  spread  like  a 
sheet  of  silver,  the  islands  on  its  breast 
glowing  like  jewels,  and  still  beyond  rose 
the  mountains,  and  above  them  all  the 
snowy  crest  of  Mount  Olympus,  far 
away  in  Greece.  And  then — the  setting 
sun,  the  rose  and  green  and  purple 
clouds,  and  the  golden  evening  light 
185 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

which  turned  it  all  to  a  vision  of  en- 
chantment. 

The  portiere  rustled,  and  there  was 
the  whisper  of  a  soft  step  on  the  soft 
carpet.  The  Sultan  turned  and  found 
the  Kisslar  Aga  before  him. 

"  I  had  not  called  you,  Selim, "  said 
Mohammed. 

"No,  Padishah,"  replied  the  eunuch, 
"I  came  uncalled,  but  always  in  the 
service  of  my  Lord  and  the  desire  to  give 
him  pleasure,  and  if  I  have  presumed  to 
divert  from  the  sunset  his  imperial  eyes 
it  is  that  they  may  gaze  on  something 
still  more  beautiful." 

"  Ah,  yes, "  the  Sultan  said ;  "  you  are  a 
faithful  servant,  Selim,  I  remember," 
and  his  eyes  flashed  as  when  he  had 
looked  upon  the  crescents.  "Where  is 
she?" 

"  In  the  nextroom, "  replied  the  Kisslar 
Aga,  "  waiting  the  Padishah's  pleasure.  " 

"Bring  her  to  me,"  said  Mohammed. 

Selim  bowed  low,  and  swiftly  leaving 
the  apartment,  returned  again  in  a 
moment  leading  by  the  hand  a  young 
1 86 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

girl  covered  from  head  to  foot  with  a 
silver  bridal  veil.  Mohammed,  with 
the  eagerness  of  youth,  advanced  to 
meet  her.  Then,  as  the  eunuch  touched 
the  veil,  "no,  no,"  he  said,  "go,  Selim, 
I  need  you  no  longer,  my  hand  will  lift 
the  veil." 

The  Kisslar  Aga  bowed  again,  and  the 
young  girl,  who  had  been  reared  for  this 
one  destiny  from  the  rosebud  to  the  rose, 
was  left  alone  with  her  master,  the 
Sultan,  ruler  of  Islam,  and  first  and 
greatest  sovereign  of  the  world. 

Mohammed  paused  a  moment,  and 
then  slowly  lifted  the  veil  and  threw  it 
back  so  that  it  fell  upon  the  carpet,  and 
Violetta  stood  before  him  like  the  moon 
out  of  a  cloud.  Then  he  drew  back  and 
looked  at  her  and  smiled.  The  evening 
light  fell  upon  her  through  the  open 
window  and  made  a  glory  of  her  golden 
curls  which,  crowned  with  a  wreath  of 
blood-red  roses  and  dark  leaves,  flowed 
over  her  shoulders  like  the  sun  glades 
on  the  water. 

Her  milk-white  skin,  her  rosy  cheeks 
187 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

and  scarlet  lips,  and  the  soft  rounded 
contours  of  her  form  all  charmed  the 
Sultan's  senses.  But  that  which  charmed 
him  most  (for  he  was  used  to  slaves  who 
trembled  and  looked  down)  was  Violetta's 
courage,  for  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his, 
such  dark-lashed  violet  eyes,  as  he  had 
never  seen,  and  looked  at  him,  not  like  a 
slave,  but  like  a  princess. 

Selim,  whose  art  was  to  enhance  the 
charms  of  beauty,  had  known  how  to 
dress  this  northern  Venus.  A  caftan  of 
turquoise  satin  embroidered  in  gold  was 
clasped  about  her  waist  with  a  golden 
girdle  studded  with  turquoises,  and  cut 
in  a  heart  shape  to  show  the  round- 
ed whiteness  of  her  neck  and  bosom, 
like  the  vest  which  Bosnian  women 
wear  to-day.  Below  the  caftan,  which 
reached  only  to  the  knee,  were  wide 
trousers  of  pink  and  gold  brocade,  and 
pink  slippers  stiff  with  gold  and  pearls. 
Her  arms  were  bare  from  the  elbow,  but 
clasped  by  no  bracelets,  and  she  wore 
no  jewel  anywhere  but  in  her  girdle, 
and  only  the  red  roses  in  her  hair.  A 
1 88 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

moment  passed  in  silence  while  they 
stood  looking  at  each  other,  and  then 
the  Sultan  spoke: 

"I  have  seen  many  women,"  he  said, 
"but  none  like  you;  whence  do  you 
come?" 

Violetta's  cheeks  flushed  rosier  red, 
but  her  voice  did  not  tremble  as  she 
answered:  "Padishah,  they  tell  me 
that  I  came  from  a  far  country  in  the 
north,  beside  a  wild  blue  sea,  but  I 
cannot  remember  it,  and  know  no  land 
but  this." 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"My  name  is  Violetta,  Padishah." 

"  A  name  that  suits  you  well;  I  think 
it  means  the  blue-eyed  flower  of  spring. 

"The  houris  have  black  eyes,  but 
they  are  for  the  faithful  whose  swords 
have  conquered  the  next  world  as  well 
as  this. 

"Their  home  is  Paradise. 

"The  peris  belong  to  this  earth,  and 
though  they  die  with  it,  they  are  made  to 
give  delight.  They  must  have  blue  eyes 
like  yours!" 

189 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

He  looked  at  her  again  in  silence,  and 
she  stood  before  him  flushed  with  the 
excitement  of  the  moment,  and  the 
mingled  feelings  of  joy  and  fear  that 
she  had  found  favour  in  his  sight.  She 
appeared  beautiful  as  the  peris  to  whom 
he  had  likened  her,  fresh  and  radiant 
as  morning  and  spring. 

The  Sultan  was  young  and  as  he 
looked  at  her,  a  strange  new  feeling 
rose  in  his  heart,  a  feeling  which  he  had 
never  known  before.  He  had  had  many 
slaves,  and  most  of  them  had  pleased 
him,  and  satisfied  him  for  the  time.  But 
he  had  held  them  lightly,  for  despite 
his  youth,  his  mind  was  set  on  conquest, 
and  he  had  dreamed,  not  of  love,  but 
of  power  and  glory.  Once  only  had  he 
unveiled  a  princess,  the  bride  whom  the 
great  Murad  had  given  him,  seeking 
to  make  him  forget  in  a  softer  passion, 
his  too  great  ambition.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  a  Turcoman  ameer.  She  too 
had  pleased  him,  and  he  had  shown  her 
all  that  respect  and  courtesy  due  a  wife, 
and  though  six  years  had  passed,  he  had 
190 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

taken  no  other,  and  she  was  still  his  only 
Sultana.  But  love  was  not  the  cause, 
for,  except  for  the  fact  that  she  remained 
and  would  hold  always  the  first  place, 
and  that  they  came  and  went,  the 
Ameer's  daughter  was  no  more  to  him 
than  his  Circassian,  Greek,  or  Persian 
slaves. 

But  now  the  ambition  of  his  life  was 
satisfied.  Constantinople  was  his.  From 
the  Danube  to  the  Mediterranean  all  was 
his,  and  in  Asia  the  whole  Empire 
of  the  Turks.  There  were  for  the  mo- 
ment no  more  worlds  to  conquer.  Na- 
ture and  youth  reasserted  themselves, 
and  Mohammed  was  ready  for  the  one 
great  passion  which  he  had  not  known. 
Now  his  destiny  had  brought  him  this 
golden  haired  maid  from  the  Baltic, 
this  violet-eyed  valkyr.  And  suddenly 
there  rose  a  question  to  his  lips  which 
he  would  never  before  have  thought  of 
asking. 

"  Violetta,"  he  said,  "are  you  glad  to 
be  here  in  the  golden  kiosk?     Are  you 
willing  to  be  mine?" 
191 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

Violetta  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 
Could  it  be  that  the  Sultan  could  ask 
such  a  question. 

"Padishah,"  she  replied,  "I  am  your 
slave." 

"  Yes, "  said  Mohammed,  "  you  are 
my  slave,  and  I  need  ask  no  questions, 
for  I  may  do  with  you  as  I  will.  But 
still,  though  it  seems  strange  to  you,  I 
will  have  another  answer. 

"Suppose  that  you  were  not  a  slave 
but  free,  and  I  a  man  as  other  men,  no 
more,  and  by  some  accident,  against  our 
customs,  such  as  are  related  in  all  ro- 
mantic tales,  we  had  seen  each  other — " 

The  Sultan  paused,  the  r61e  was  new 
to  him  and  for  a  moment  the  Conqueror 
of  Constantinople  was  at  a  loss  for  words. 

"And  then  suppose  I  said,  'Violetta 
will  you  be  mine? '  How  would  you 
answer?" 

"  Oh,  Padishah, "  said  Violetta,  trem- 
bling now  and  looking  down  indeed, 
"  you  honour  me  too  much,  I  am  your 
slave." 

"  I  have  told  you  that  I  do  not  want 
192 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

a  slave's  answer,"  said  Mohammed. 
"  Speak,  what  do  you  fear  ? " 

Then  Violetta  lifted  her  eyes  again 
to  his  and  said:  "Myself,  Padishah." 

And  now  the  Sultan  flushed  with 
pleasure  as  if  he  had  been  indeed  no 
more  than  other  men. 

"Fear  not  yourself,"  he  said,  "but 
answer  me.  Tell  me  what  would  be 
your  answer,  'yes'  or  'no.'" 

"Then,"  said  Violetta,  clasping  her 
hands  and  blushing  like  the  sunset, 
"may  my  Lord  forgive  me  if  I  seem  too 
bold,  surely  it  is  not  for  the  Padishah 
to  ask  in  vain.  My  answer  would  be 
'yes.'  " 

And  then  hiding  her  face  with  her 
hands  she  stood  before  him  like  a  dis- 
covered culprit,  for  she  well  knew  that 
her  answer  had  been  a  confession  of 
love,  love  quick  as  the  lightning's  flash, 
as  all  Oriental  love  must  be,  and  kindled 
in  her  heart  by  the  first  glance  of  the 
imperial  eyes. 

Mohammed  smiled,  and  his  eyes 
flashed  with  triumph  and  delight,  and 
13  193 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

something  warmer  which  he  had  never 
shown  in  them  before.  Taking  Vio- 
letta's  hands,  one  in  each  of  his,  he  drew 
them  down  and  held  them. 

"Look  at  me  again,"  he  said,  "it 
is  not  often  that  I  find  eyes  that  meet 
my  own  Hke  yours." 

And  Violetta  looked  at  him  again,  this 
time  with  her  heart  in  her  eyes.  And 
suddenly  Mohammed  took  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her.  She  had  fulfilled 
her  destiny. 

The  evening  light  grew  softer  and  the 
sunset  gold  changed  first  to  red  and 
then  to  violet.  The  scent  of  flowers 
and  the  whirr  and  twitter  of  birds  fly- 
ing homeward  came  through  the  open 
windows,  and  then  suddenly  the  sky 
flushed  again  with  the  light  of  the  after- 
glow. The  Sultan  led  his  new  slave 
into  the  glass  lantern,  and  pointed  first 
to  Europe,  then  to  Asia. 

"Look,"  he  said,  "my  Empire.  The 
world  holds  nothing  richer  or  more 
beautiful,  and  I  have  made  it  mine. " 

Violetta  looked  for  a  moment  at  the 
194 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

fair  scene  below  her  and  then  at  him. 
She  did  not  wonder,  for  it  seemed  to  her 
but  natural  that  he  should  conquer  all 
things. 

"Allah,"  he  said,  "has  given  me  all 
that  I  have  asked,  and  I  have  had  all 
things  but  one,  and  now  you  have  been 
sent  to  me  to  bring  me  that." 

"Oh,  Padishah,"  said  Violetta,  look- 
ing at  him  half  in  hope,  half  in  fear, 
"what  is  it  that  I  have  brought  you?" 

"Something,"  said  Mohammed,  "that 
I  have  neither  known  nor  valued,  and 
that  you  alone  have  taught  me — love. " 

A  smile  like  sunlight  shone  on  Vio- 
letta's  lips  and  in  her  eyes.  That  she 
was  destined  for  the  Sultan  she  had 
known  for  long,  and  she  had  thought 
that  she  might  please  him,  without 
knowing  whether  she  wished  it  so  or 
not.  But  that  he  should  love  her,  was 
more  than  she  had  ever  hoped  or 
dreamed. 

Then,  as  by  the  magic  of  some  charm, 
she  seemed  to  lose  all  maidenly  timidity, 
and  all  remembrance  that  he  was  the 
195 


The  New  Moon  of  Isla 

Sultan,  and  she  his  slave.  All  her  soul 
filled  with  one  passion  only,  she  lifted 
her  white  arms  and  clasped  them  around 
his  neck.  And  Mohammed,  to  whom 
her  boldness  was  a  new  delight,  her 
love  a  treasure,  strange  and  sweet, 
clasped  her  against  his  heart  and  kissed 
her,  kisses  without  number,  burning 
and  tender  as  the  stars  of  a  tropical 
night. 

Slowly  and  softly  the  afterglow  faded, 
and  in  the  woods  and  gardens  the  night- 
ingales began  to  sing.  One  by  one  the 
stars  came  out,  and  in  the  East  there 
rose  in  the  pale  blue  and  glimmered 
through  the  open  jewel  casement,  a 
silver  crescent,  the  new  moon  of  Islam! 


IV 


The  crescent  that  had  silvered  the 
May  night,  which  for  Mohammed  was 
the  dawn  of  love,  waxed  to  the  full  and 
waned.  The  blossoms  of  the  fruit  trees 
fell  like  stars  setting  in  a  dark  sky, 
and  the  orchard  changed  from  pink  and 
196 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

white  to  green.  The  wistaria  bloomed 
over  all  in  a  glory  of  purple  and  faded, 
giving  place  to  the  roses  of  June.  And 
when  the  next  new  moon  shone,  now 
in  the  sky  as  rich  and  soft  as  turquoise, 
Mohammed  showed  it  to  Violetta  from 
the  window  saying,  "Look,  the  moon 
of  Islam!  Twice  dear  to  me  now,  for 
since  it  shone  on  that  first  night,  it  is 
the  sign  and  symbol  of  our  love. " 

The  word  love  was  often  spoken  by 
Mohammed  now  and  came  as  naturally 
from  his  lips  as  once  the  terms  and  com- 
mands of  war,  which  now  were  unuttered. 
The  time  which  had  been  fixed  for  his 
return  to  Adrianople  had  come  and 
gone,  and  he  still  lingered  in  the  golden 
kiosk.  Neither  the  Sultana  nor  any 
of  his  Odalisques  were  summoned  from 
thence,  but  in  the  harem,  Violetta, 
surrounded  by  attendant  slaves  and 
eunuchs,  black  and  white,  reigned  with- 
out a  rival,  supreme  and  alone. 

Jewel  merchants,  silk  merchants,  gold- 
smiths, and  dealers  in  all  that  is  rich 
and  rare,  climbed  the  mountain  with 
197 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

their  laden  asses  that  the  Sultan  might 
choose  gifts  for  his  favourite  from  their 
stores,  and  Mohammed  gave  his  gold, 
as  he  did  all  things,  with  a  royal  hand 
and  laid  the  wealth  of  his  Empire  at 
Violetta's  feet. 

She  was  grateful,  but  not  spoiled  by 
all  this  splendour,  for  though  these 
bright  and  beautiful  things  delighted  her 
in  themselves  they  delighted  her  still 
more,  because  they  were  the  Sultan's 
gifts.  The  jewel  which  she  prized  the 
most,  and  beside  which  all  the  others 
were  as  nothing,  was  Mohammed's 
love.  She  was  happy,  perfectly  happy. 
She  loved  the  Sultan  with  all  her  heart, 
and  all  the  fresh  young  forces  of  her 
nature.  She  lived  in  that  love  and  in 
the  present  only,  without  a  thought  for 
either  the  future  or  the  past. 

The  June  moon  waned  also.  Mid- 
summer was  past,  but  the  heat  waxed 
instead  of  waning,  and  the  third  new 
moon  which  marked  the  course  of 
royal  love,  shone  in  a  breathless  night, 
blazing  with  stars  and  faint  with  sweet 
198 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

perfume.  Again  Mohammed  and  Vio- 
letta  looked  at  it  from  the  eastern 
window. 

"The  moon  of  Islam  waxes  and 
wanes,"  he  said,  "and  goes  and  comes 
again,  but  our  love  waxes  only,  and 
grows  ever  more  and  more." 

"Yes,"  said  Violetta,  "though  it  was 
so  great  at  first,  it  seemed  that  it  could 
be  no  greater,  so  therefore  it  is  like  the 
moon,  for  who  has  seen  the  crescent 
only,  dreams  not  of  the  moon's  splen- 
dour at  the  full.  And  we  at  first  thought 
that  our  love  was  all  that  love  could  be, 
and  now  we  know  that  it  grows  always 
more  and  more. " 

The  golden  kiosk  was  indeed  a  para- 
dise of  love  in  this  golden  summer-time. 
But  the  realm  of  Mohammed  extended 
beyond  its  walls,  and  there  was  a  scene 
of  growing  discontent.  The  Turks,  whose 
victorious  arms  had  made  them  the 
terror  of  the  world,  were  restless  when 
idle.  The  Viziers  and  Emirs,  Pashas 
and  Bevs  waited  impatiently  in  their 
palaces  along  the  Bosphorus,  where 
199 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

everything  reminded  them  of  their  con- 
quests, their  usual  summons  to  the 
presence  of  the  Padishah. 

Days  passed  and  weeks,  and  no  divan 
was  held.  The  Grand  Vizier  trans- 
acted business  in  the  Sultan's  name, 
and  he  or  any  other  minister  who  sought 
from  necessity  an  audience  of  the  Padi- 
shah was  received  impatiently,  and  with 
all  haste  dismissed.  The  Sultan  rode 
no  more  a-hunting  or  a-hawking.  His 
pages  and  attendants  sulked  in  the 
court-yard  and  the  ante-chambers,  their 
occupation  gone.  Worst  of  all,  the 
Janissaries  missed  their  leader  and 
murmured  at  his  absence,  and  their 
murmurs  rolled  like  thunder  through 
the  Turkish  Empire. 

Mohammed,  they  said,  had  forgot- 
ten that  he  was  the  successor  of  the 
Prophet,  and  the  leader  and  ruler  of 
Islam,  whether  in  peace  or  war.  He  had 
forgotten  his  soldiers,  his  people,  his 
Empire.  His  sword  was  rusting  in  the 
scabbard,  and  he  was  the  slave  of  love. 
These  murmurs  reached  the  gates  of  the 
2  op 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

golden  kiosk,  and  entered,  but  only 
into  the  court-yard  and  the  outer 
chambers. 

The  Kisslar  Aga  heard  them,  but  only 
shook  his  head  and  said  that  he  would 
not  disturb  the  pleasure  of  the  Padishah, 
nor  should  any  one  else,  that  the  Janis- 
saries were  ever  troublesome  and  dis- 
contented, and  that  time  would  set  all 
right.  And  the  word  of  the  Kisslar  Aga 
is  law  in  the  Serail. 

Time  went  on  and  the  Sultan  knew 
nothing,  for  he  had  in  truth  forgotten 
his  Janissaries  and  his  Empire.  The 
third  moon  waxed  and  waned.  The 
storm  gathered,  rolling  up  from  the 
East  and  the  West,  from  Europe  and 
Asia;  it  darkened  and  blackened  and 
burst.     And — passed  away. 

Brilliant  and  triumphant  as  the  ca- 
reer of  Mohammed  had  been,  he  still  had 
learned  that  fortune,  like  the  moon, 
had  her  reverses  which  were  not  bright. 
Twice  the  great  Murad  had  abdicated 
the  sovereignty,  and  placed  his  son  upon 
the  throne,  and  twice  had  he  resumed 

20I 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

his  power.  Mohammed  knew  that  Allah 
gives  and  takes,  and  now  when  came  this 
trouble  with  his  people  (his  first  and 
last),  he  was  weighed  in  the  balance  and 
not  foimd  wanting. 

It  was  a  sultry  day  late  in  July  when 
came  at  last  the  Grand  Vizier,  and  told 
the  Padishah  what  he  should  long  ago 
have  told,  that  now  the  discontent  of 
the  Imperial  Janissaries  had  reached 
the  point  where  the  next  step  must  be 
revolt.  The  Sultan  listened  in  silence, 
pained  at  the  thought  that  his  soldiers 
could  turn  against  him,  and  then  per- 
haps with  self-reproach  that  he  had 
neglected  his  duties  as  their  leader, 
perhaps  with  anger  also,  but  without 
fear,  for  that  he  knew  not,  of  the  result. 
Then  he  dismissed  the  Grand  Vizier 
saying  only,  "let  my  soldiers  come,  I 
will  meet  them. " 

He  remained  awhile  wrapt  in  deep 
thought  and  fighting  a  battle  with 
himself.  It  was  the  afternoon,  and 
slowly  on  the  stillness  grew  a  muffled 
sound,  first  distant  and  then  near  and 
202 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

nearer,  the  tramp  of  marching  feet. 
The  Sultan  sat  alone,  and  like  the  waves 
of  a  spring  flood  slowly,  resistlessly, 
they  came  and  closed  around  his  palace, 
like  a  ring  of  steel,  the  flower,  the  pride, 
the  terror  of  his  Empire,  the  Janissaries ! 

The  portiere  of  the  apartment  was 
pushed  aside,  and  the  Kisslar  Aga 
rushed  breathless  and  panic-stricken 
into  the  Imperial  presence. 

"Padishah,  Padishah!"  he  cried,  "the 
Janissaries!  the  Janissaries!" 

"My  soldiers,"  said  Mohammed,  "let 
them  await  till  I  have  time  for  them; 
first  send  me  my  Violetta." 

The  summons  was  unnecessary,  for 
at  that  moment,  Violetta,  who  had 
heard  the  tumult  in  her  apartments, 
came  unbidden  to  the  Sultan's  presence, 
and  full  of  love  and  fear  threw  herself 
on  her  knees  before  him,  just  where  the 
light  of  the  setting  sun  fell  full  upon  her, 
bathing  her  in  a  golden  glory. 

Mohammed  looked  at  her  in  silence 
for  a  moment.  She  was  more  beautiful 
than  she  had  been  at  first,  more  radiant. 
203 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

The  change  in  her  was  like  that  of 
spring  to  summer,  that  change  which  is 
wrought  by  love  alone;  even  the  tints 
of  her  attire  were  brighter,  for  now  she 
wore  the  colours  of  the  Turkish  Empire, 
blood-red  and  green  and  gold.  Her  gir- 
dle clasped  her  like  a  jewelled  rainbow, 
and  her  wreath  of  roses  was  replaced 
by  a  tiara  of  emeralds  and  rubies.  The 
Kisslar  Aga  withdrew,  and  they  were 
alone,  and  then  Mohammed  rising 
lifted  her  from  her  knees,  and  clasped 
her  to  his  heart. 

"Oh,  my  Lord,"  she  said,  "what  is 
this  tumult?" 

But  he  kissed  her  first,  and  then 
answered  carelessly,  "my  soldiers,  Vio- 
letta;  they  say  that  Mohammed  has 
forgotten  them,  and  clamour  for  their 
leader." 

"Oh,  my  Lord,"  said  Violetta,  "is 
that  all?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Mohammed,  "that  is 

all,  but  it  is  true;  I  had  forgotten  them. 

These  last  three  moons  I  have  been  a 

lover  only,  Violetta.     I  have  neglected, 

204 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

forgotten,  given  up  all  else  for  you,  and  I 
might  do  so  still  were  I  a  man  like  other 
men ;  but  I  am  not,  and  now  I  find  that 
love,  or  love  at  least  like  this,  is  the  one 
thing  denied  the  Sultan  of  the  Turks. " 

"Oh!  My  Lord,"  said  Violetta,  filled 
with  a  sudden  fear,  "what  would  you 
do?" 

And  Mohammed  answered:  "It  has 
been  said  that  man  is  first  a  man,  and 
then  a  king,  but  it  is  not  true.  He  to 
whom  Allah  has  given  sovereign  power 
is  first  a  king. " 

"My  Lord  is  right,"  said  Violetta, 
forgetting  her  fear  of  the  moment  before 
in  her  admiration  of  him,  "and  as  a 
king,  Mohammed  will  never  fail. " 

"I  cannot,"  said  Mohammed,  "and 
now  Violetta,  I  go  to  meet  my  Janissaries, 
but  first  I  wished  for  you,  for  one  more 
kiss." 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  her  for  a 
moment  with  a  long  Hngering  look,  and 
then  went  on : 

"Violetta,  you  know,  for  I  have  told 
you  many  times,  but  I  will  tell  you  still 
205 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

once  more,  you  are  the  only  woman  I 
have  loved. " 

"Yes,  my  Lord,"  she  said,  "I  know, 
Allah  has  given  me  your  love. " 

"Then,  Violetta,  remember  this  al- 
ways." 

"Oh,  my  Lord,"  she  said,  "could  I 
forget  that  you  have  loved  me  ?  Were  I 
banished  from  your  presence  and  lived 
on  without  you  for  a  hundred  years,  that 
memory  would  be  my  only  thought,  not 
only  here,  but  I  would  take  it  with  me  to 
Paradise. " 

"To  Paradise,"  repeated  Mohammed; 
"yes,  Violetta,  and  not  the  memory  only 
but  the  love  itself.  You  alone  have  my 
love  here,  and  you  shall  take  it  with  you 
to  Paradise." 

Then  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her  with  many  kisses. 

The  impatient  shouts  of  the  Janissaries 
and  the  clatter  of  their  arms  came 
through  the  windows,  breaking  the 
wonted  stillness  of  the  golden  kiosk, 
and  at  last  Mohammed  unclasped  the 
arms  that  would  have  held  him,  and 
206 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

with  one  last  kiss  left  her.  Then  walking 
through  the  length  of  his  apartments  to 
one  which  had  a  balcony,  he  stepped  out 
through  the  window  and  showed  himself 
to  the  Janissaries,  suddenly  and  alone. 

There  was  the  breathless  silence  of 
a  moment.  As  though  by  magic  the 
tumult  was  stilled  and  awed  by  his 
presence,  and  then  Mohammed    spoke: 

"My  Janissaries  have  come  to  me 
uncalled;  what  is  it  that  they  seek?" 

"Our  leader,"  cried  a  voice,  and  here 
and  there  was  heard  "  Chokyosha  Padi- 
shah!" more  perhaps  from  force  of  habit 
than  intent,  and  then  an  un distinguish- 
able tumult  of  cries,  till  at  last  Mo- 
hammed made  them  hear  that  one  of 
them  should  speak  for  all. 

Thereupon  stepped  forward  just  be- 
low the  balcony  a  giant,  Hassan  by 
name,  he  who  had  been  the  first  to  scale 
the  wall  of  Constantinople,  and  whose 
prestige  in  consequence  was  only 
equalled  by  his  boldness. 

"Chokyosha  Padishah!"  he  said,  and 
made  the  salute. 

207 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

Mohammed  looked  at  him,  then  let  his 
glance  sweep  the  round  of  the  tumultuous 
gathering  of  the  most  splendid  soldiers 
that  the  worid  then  knew,  than  which 
it  has  known  no  better.  Pride  flashed 
in  his  eyes,  and  a  flush  mantled  to  his 
cheek.  He  had  forgotten  these  his 
Janissaries,  he  had  not  seen  them  for 
three  moons,  or  thought  of  them,  and 
now  they  came  as  mutineers  and  rebels, 
but  they  still  were  his.  He  knew  how 
well  they  loved  him,  and  (so  contradic- 
tory is  the  human  heart)  he  felt  perhaps 
for  the  first  time  how  dear  they  were  to 
him. 

"Hassan,"  he  said  at  length,  "you 
were  the  first  to  plant  a  Moslem  foot 
on  the  walls  of  Constantinople.  I  had 
not  thought  that  you  would  also  be  the 
first  to  turn  against  your  Lord. " 

"Padishah,"  said  Hassan,  "I  am  not 
against  my  Lord.  Neither  are  these; 
we  are  faithful  subjects  and  soldiers. 
No  one  is  against  the  Padishah  but 
himself." 

"Boldly  spoken,"  said  the  Sultan, 
208 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

"but  remember,  Hassan,  there  are  bar- 
riers higher  than  those  of  Constanti- 
nople." 

"Padishah,"  replied  the  undaunted 
Hassan,  "if  we  speak  boldly,  it  is  be- 
cause we  have  earned  the  right.  You 
indeed  have  led  us  to  victory,  but  our 
swords  have  carved  your  Empire.  Our 
lives  are  devoted  to  your  service.  We 
may  not  marry.  We  have  no  homes, 
no  wives,  no  children,  no  ties  like  other 
men.  Padishah!  the  Janissaries  live  and 
fight  and  die  for  you  alone!" 

It  was  all  true;  Mohammed  did  not 
answer,  but  his  hand,  which  clasped  the 
railing  of  the  balcony,  trembled  with  a 
sudden  strong  emotion.  Confused  cries 
interrupted  the  oration  of  the  Janissary 
for  a  few  moments,  but  then  he  obtained 
silence  and  went  on. 

"Padishah,  you  have  led  us  to 
victory,  you  have  loved  and  prized  us, 
and  we  have  always  been  ready  to  give 
our  lives  for  you.  But  now,  Padishah, 
all  is  changed.  You  have  forgotten  your 
soldiers,  we  see  your  face  no  more,  you 
14  209 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

are  shut  up  in  your  palace  like  the  khalif 
of  Bagdad  in  the  khalifate's  decline. 
You  care  no  more  for  your  Empire, 
your  soldiers,  your  people.  Your  sword 
is  rusting  in  the  scabbard,  and  you  are 
the  slave  of  love." 

The  portiere  rustled  behind  Moham- 
med, and  the  Kisslar  Aga  appeared 
beside  him  trembling  with  fright.  "Oh, 
Padishah,"  he  whispered  with  that 
familiarity  permitted  to  his  office,  "con- 
tent the  Janissaries;  it  is  a  question  of 
your  life  and  crown." 

"Am  I  a  slave,"  replied  Mohammed, 
"to  tremble  at  threats?  Shall  I  fear 
my  own  soldiers?  No,  I  will  die  when 
it  is  the  will  of  God,  but  not  by  their 
hands,  nor  will  I  lose  my  sceptre,  and 
what  I  will  do  is  not  for  them,  but  for 
myself." 

"Padishah,"  cried  Hassan,^  "the 
leader  of  the  Janissaries  must  be  a 
soldier,  not  a  recluse  of  the  harem. 
Are  you  and  will  you  be  our  leader  still 

»  See  Appendix  III. 

2IO 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

or  not?  We  have  come  here  to-day  to 
ask  this  question,  and  to  receive  your 
answer,  Padishah. " 

Mohammed  folded  his  arms  and  looked 
at  his  rebellious  soldiers  with  a  glance 
which  awed  them  into  silence,  with  all 
the  pride  and  fire  of  his  Imperial  race 
and  his  Imperial  nature. 

Then  he  said,  his  voice  clear  and  calm 
in  the  sudden  stillness:  "You  shall 
have  my  answer. " 

Turning  he  whispered  something  in 
Selim's  ear,  and  the  eunuch  in  response 
disappeared  through  the  window,  and  in 
silence  the  Sultan  and  soldiers  waited. 
Then  the  curtain  was  lifted  again,  and 
Selim  reappeared  with  a  female  figure 
wrapped  in  a  silver  veil. 

Mohammed  drew  her  to  him  and 
quickly,  as  if  he  feared  to  hesitate,  tore 
off  her  veil,  and  showed  her  to  the 
Janissaries  in  all  her  beauty.  The 
last  rays  of  the  sunset  fell  upon  her,  and 
all  eyes  turned  to  her  and  rested  there; 
Mohammed's  also.  She  lifted  her  eyes 
to  his  and  ceased  to  tremble;  for  she 

211 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

read  something  there  which  made  her 
forget  herself. 

The  fierce  soldiers  surrounded  them 
like  a  stormy  sea.  The  silence  caused 
by  the  surprise  of  the  Sultan's  action  in 
unveiling  his  favourite  before  them  gave 
way  to  a  tumult  of  confused  and  in- 
articulate cries.  But  in  the  midst  of 
all  this  storm  and  tumult  Mohammed 
and  Violetta  were  still  for  a  moment 
alone.  Neither  spoke,  but  Mohammed 
clasped  his  left  arm  around  her  with 
one  long  last  look  and  then  with  his 
right  hand  he  drew  the  emerald  hilted 
dagger  from  his  belt.  The  Janissaries 
saw  the  blade  flash  in  the  air,  but  Vio- 
letta looked  only  in  her  Imperial  lover's 
eyes  and  saw  it  not,  nor  knew  her  destiny 
till  he  had  plunged  it  into  her  heart. 

A  great  shout  arose  which  seemed  to 
rend  the  air,  but  Violetta  heard  it  not. 
Her  lips  curled  in  a  smile,  as  if  all  fear 
was  past,  and  hope  remained.  Her 
eyes  clung  to  Mohammed's,  and  with 
one  last  look  of  love,  she  passed  from  this 
world  to  the  other. 


The  New  Moon  of  Islam 

Still  holding  her,  the  Sultan  turned 
to  his  soldiers,  and  raising  his  dagger  in 
the  air  that  all  might  see  it  was  red,  he 
cried:  "Mohammed  is  not  the  slave 
of  love. " 

And  now  the  soldiers'  shouts  were 
cries  of  joy,  and  the  air  trembled  to  the 
sound  of  "Chokyosha  Padishah!" 

The  sun  had  set,  and  as  Mohammed 
turned  his  eyes  from  West  to  East,  a 
glimmering  light  appeared  behind  the 
mountains.  As  if  spell-bound,  he  gazed 
and  slowly,  slowly,  pale,  as  a  soul  as- 
cending into  heaven,  cold  and  bright, 
there  rose  and  glittered  in  the  summer 
night,  a  silver  crescent,  the  new  moon 
of  Islam. ^ 

«  See  Appendix  IV. 


213 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 


ai5 


THE  HEART  OF  BOSNIA 


IT  was  the  month  of  August  in  the 
year  1815;  the  scene,  Bosnia.  Two 
months  before  the  fate  of  Europe  had 
been  decided  by  the  battle  of  Waterloo. 
The  allies  were  resting  like  tigers  after 
their  bloody  feast,  and  there  was  an 
interim  in  history. 

In  Turkey  alone,  the  fall  of  Napoleon 
made  Httle  difference.  Mahmoud,  the 
reformer,  sat  on  the  Ottoman  throne, 
but  the  reforms  which  he  afterwards 
carried  out  so  successfully  were  not 
yet  inaugurated.  The  Empire  was  torn 
with  internal  dissensions,  and  the  only 
person  who  really  reigned,  and  that 
only  in  his  own  provinces,  was  Ali 
Tepelenti,  the  terrible  Pacha  of  Yanina. 

Constant  outbreaks  occurred.  Fire 
and  sword  ravaged  not  only  the  distant 
217 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

provinces,  but  held  sway  in  Constanti- 
nople itself,  where  the  Sultan  was  often 
a  prisoner  inside  the  walls  of  the  Serail. 
It  was  the  darkest  hour  of  the  Turkish 
Empire,  the  last  days  of  the  Janissaries. 

It  was  the  afternoon  and  a  troop  of 
Spahis  was  riding  up  the  valley  of  the 
Verbas,  the  forest-clad  mountains  rising 
like  dark  green  walls  on  either  side,  and 
the  wild  river  dashing  down  between. 
The  road  was  narrow,  and  the  Spahis 
rode  in  a  long  line  and  at  their  head  their 
leader,  Abul  Abbas  Bey. 

This  Abul  Abbas,  thus  renamed,  was 
not  a  Turk,  but  an  Albanian  Prince,  who 
had  been  taken  prisoner  in  childhood, 
adopted  by  the  Sultan  Selim,  and 
brought  up  with  his  son  Mahmoud. 
The  two  young  men  had  been  indeed 
like  brothers  and  were  still,  though  the 
one  now  sat  upon  the  throne,  and  the 
other  followed  the  changing  fortunes 
of  war. 

Abul  Abbas  was  a  handsome  young 
man  with  all  the  wild  dark  beauty  of 
his  race:  the  oHve  skin,  the  bright  black 
218 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

eyes,  the  jet  black  hair  and  curled 
moustache,  the  fine  clear  cut  features 
and  teeth  like  pearls.  Fierce  and  grace- 
ful as  a  panther,  hot  blooded,  warm 
hearted,  generous,  and  brave,  he  was  a 
soldier  by  nature. 

A  Turk  in  all  things  else,  he  wore  the 
magnificent  Albanian  costume,  which 
suited  him  to  perfection :  the  tight-fitting 
jacket  or  crimson  velvet  embroidered 
in  gold,  the  white  kilt  and  loose  white 
sleeves,  yellow  morocco  shoes  and  crim- 
son velvet  leggings,  stiff  with  gold,  and 
a  crimson  velvet  cap  bordered  with 
Russian  sable,  from  which  hung  a  long 
gold  tassel  that  dangled  about  his  left 
ear.  Two  ornamented  pistols  were 
thrust  in  his  crimson  sash,  and  a  short 
sword  hung  at  his  side,  the  hilt  and 
scabbard  bright  with  gold  and  jewels. 

At  his  elbow  rode  his  servant,  a 
young  man  of  his  own  age  slender  and 
dark,  with  a  sinister  but  very  clever 
face,  a  Greek,  whose  fate,  different  as 
their  social  status  was,  had  been  initially 
much  like  his  own. 

219 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

Leonidas,  the  son  of  an  innkeeper 
at  Megara,  had  been  like  Abul  Abbas 
torn  from  his  home  in  childhood  by  the 
Turks  and  carried  to  Constantinople. 
But  there  the  difference  began.  Abul 
Abbas  had  been  taken  at  an  age  so 
tender  that  he  had  lost  all  recollection 
of  his  home,  name,  and  religion,  and 
thought  himself,  and  doubtless  was, 
much  happier  in  his  life  in  the  Serail 
as  the  Sultan's  adopted  son,  than  he 
could  ever  have  been  in  his  own  country. 
To  him,  his  captivity  was  his  good  for- 
tune. But  Leonidas  had  been,  when 
taken  by  the  Turks,  already  fourteen 
years  old.  He  remembered  everything 
and  with  regret,  and  though  he  too  was 
brought  to  the  Serail,  he  came  there  as  a 
slave. 

He  had  not  changed  his  name  or  his 
religion,  and  in  his  heart,  he  hated  all 
Turks  and  thirsted  for  revenge.  But 
he  was  clever,  and  outwardly  he  tried 
to  please  his  masters  and  succeeded  very 
well.  He  had  been  given  some  years 
before,  to  Abul  Abbas,  whose  entire 
220 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

confidence  he  had  won,  and  whom  he 
served  with  an  intense  devotion,  partly 
real,  because  the  Bey  was  kind  and  gener- 
ous to  him,  and  partly  because  he  saw 
that  his  master's  interest  was  his  own. 

"Leonidas,"  said  Abul  Abbas  sud- 
denly, "have  I  not  heard  you  say  that 
you  knew  the  Governor  of  Bosnia, 
Mukhtar  Pacha?" 

"  Yes,  Bey  Effendi,  I  know  him. " 

"By  the  Sultan's  orders,"  said  Abul 
Abbas,  "we  must  stay  here  and  guard 
him  in  his  mountain  nest,  and  fight 
for  him  if  need  be.  It  will  be  dull, 
and  I  fear  will  lack  all  excitement.  I 
would  at  least  like  to  think  that  he  is 
worthy  of  our  sacrifice;  what  do  you 
know  of  him?" 

The  Greek's  eyes  flashed,  but  he 
replied  laconically,  "nothing  good." 

At  that  moment,  they  rounded  the 
shoulder  of  a  mountain  and  came  sud- 
denly on  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
wonderful  sights  that  Europe  has  to 
show,  the  cataract  of  the  Verbas. 
Bosnia   is   a   land   of   mountains,    long 

221 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

ranges  covered  with  dark  forests,  and 
deep  rich  valleys  watered  by  wild 
mountain  streams. 

King  of  its  rivers  is  the  Verbas.  For 
miles  it  i^ushes  down  between  the 
mountains  in  a  succession  of  rapids, 
growing  ever  wilder  in  its  course,  till 
at  last  it  takes  a  leap  of  seventy-five 
feet  in  the  air,  and  hurls  its  waters  with 
a  sound  like  thunder  and  a  mist  of  foam 
and  spray,  into  the  gorge  below. 

The  Spahis  had  come  out  just  below 
an  old  church  and  monastery  and  from 
this  point  is  the  finest  view.  On  the 
left  a  mountain  rising  like  a  wall,  and 
on  the  right  another  less  precipitate 
on  whose  side,  and  just  above  the  cata- 
ract, the  town  of  Jaice  hangs  like  an 
eagle's  nest.  It  is  a  quaint  little 
Turkish  town,  a  relic  of  the  past,  with 
its  old  walls,  its  grey  stone  houses  with 
their  latticed  bay  windows,  and  the 
red  roofs  and  the  minarets  of  its  seven 
mosques. 

Between  the  two  mountains  thunders 
the  cataract,  a  sight  which  none  can 

222 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

worthily  describe,  but  at  which  those 
who  see  it  stand  and  hold  their  breath, 
as  did  the  Spahis.  Abul  Abbas  had 
been  reared  in  the  Serail,  but  a  bom 
mountaineer  has  the  love  of  the  moun- 
tains in  his  breast,  and  now  as  he  drew 
rein  and  looked  at  the  stupendous 
scene  before  him,  it  was  with  a  wild 
and  fierce  delight.  Under  the  embroid- 
ery of  the  Albanian  jacket,  beat  the 
Albanian  heart. 

The  Spahis  rode  past  the  church  and 
monastery,  long,  square,  and  white  like 
an  iceberg  set  down  in  the  green  valley, 
and  thence  up  the  side  of  the  mountain, 
the  road  taking  a  sharp  and  sudden  rise. 

Jaice  has  two  gates,  one  toward  the 
river,  the  other  landward,  and  it  was  at 
the  latter  that  Abul  Abbas  and  his  Spahis 
entered  the  town  and  rode  down  the 
principal  street,  which  is  twelve  feet 
broad  and  paved  with  flags.  On  either 
side  are  houses  with  over-hanging  bay 
windows,  and  below  the  usual  Oriental 
bird-box  shops,  in  which  the  proprietors 
sit  cross-legged  working  at  their  various 
223 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

trades  or  merely  patiently  awaiting 
their  customers. 

A  few  Bosnian  peasants  in  their 
picturesque  costumes  as  well  as  a  few 
Turkish  irregulars  and  three  or  four 
Turkish  women  in  black  veils  were 
lounging  in  the  streets.  The  residence 
of  the  Governor,  a  square,  whitewashed 
house  with  the  usual  bay  windows  on 
the  upper  floor  was  marked  by  the 
Turkish  flag,  which  hung  over  the  door- 
way, and  by  the  presence  of  two  sen- 
tries leaning  on  their  muskets  and 
indulging  in  an  animated  conversation 
with  each  other. 

The  noise  of  the  horses'  hoofs  on  the 
stone  pavement  had  brought  several 
persons  to  the  door,  and  as  Abul  Abbas 
alighted  he  was  received  by  the  Lieu- 
tenant, and  the  Secretary  of  the  Gover- 
nor, a  large  and  important  black  eunuch 
and  two  or  three  of  the  principal  citizens 
of  Jaice.  All  were  apparelled  in  Turkish 
costume  more  or  less  gorgeous,  with 
white  turbans  around  their  fezes.  (Mah- 
moud  had  not  yet  introduced  his  dress 
224 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

reforms,  and  they  indeed  have  had  no 
effect  in  Bosnia,  where  the  Oriental  dress 
still  reigns  supreme.) 

Everything  in  Jaice  was  on  a  small  and 
necessarily  simple  scale,  which  made  it 
impossible  for  the  Governor  to  keep  up 
the  usual  state. 

Abul  Abbas,  followed  by  Leonidas, 
was  ushered  at  once  into  a  low,  white- 
washed room  with  a  divan  at  one  end, 
covered  with  Turkish  rugs,  on  which 
sat  a  tall  handsome  man  in  the  forties, 
with  aquiline  features,  a  black  beard,  and 
eagle  eye — Mukhtar  Pacha.  The  Pacha's 
dress  was  rich  and  costly,  jewels  glittered 
on  his  fingers,  and  he  seemed  as  out  of 
place  in  his  surroundings  as  an  eagle  in 
a  sparrow's  nest. 

He  invited  Abul  Abbas  to  sit  beside 
him.  The  usual  Oriental  compliments 
were  interchanged,  and  then  the  Pacha 
informed  the  Bey  that  he  had  received 
the  Sultan's  letter  in  regard  to  him,  and 
that  he  thanked  the  Padishah  for  send- 
ing him  so  valiant  a  defender,  though  in 
truth  no  such  defender  was  necessary, 

IS  22$ 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

as  the  province  was  for  the  moment  at 
peace,  and  his  own  forces  sufficient  for 
his  protection.  He  explained  that  there 
was  no  room  for  the  Spahis  in  the  town, 
for  which  reason  he  had  ordered  them 
to  be  received  into  the  monastery  in 
the  valley  below,  a  command  which,  he 
added,  did  not  please  the  monks,  though 
they  had  ample  room,  and  was  therefore 
liable  to  dissatisfy  the  peasantry,  who 
in  Bosnia  are  all  Christians  and  as  such 
under  the  domination  of  the  monks. 
Finally  he  regretted  that  he  would  be 
unable  to  receive  Abul  Abbas  into  his 
own  house,  as  it  was  small  and  hardly 
afforded  room  enough  for  his  own  house- 
hold; but  that  he  had  provided  for  him 
other  quarters,  namely,  a  small  house 
just  inside  the  wall. 

Abul  Abbas  was  by  no  means  pleased 
with  his  reception,  but  he  accepted  it  in 
silence,  drank  a  cup  of  coffee  with  the 
Pacha,  smoked  a  cigarette,  and  then 
arose  and  took  his  leave.  The  secretary 
and  the  fat  negro  were  waiting  at  the 
door  to  be  his  guides,  and  remounting 
226 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

his  horse  he  followed  them  through  a 
street  but  four  feet  wide,  to  his  house, 
a  picturesque  little  box  which  hung  over 
the  city  wall,  and  into  whose  windows 
the  south  wind  blew  the  spray  of  the 
cataract. 

There  were  three  rooms  on  each  floor, 
all  white- washed  and  bare.  Abul  Abbas 
established  himself  on  the  upper  floor 
with  Leonidas,  leaving  the  ground  floor 
to  the  cook,  and  cook's  boy,  whom  he 
had  brought  with  him,  and  four  Spahis, 
whom  he  retained,  and  the  rest  of  his 
troop  rode  back  again  to  the  monastery 
in  the  valley.  The  Bey's  rugs,  cushions, 
and  curtains,  his  table  service  and 
kitchen  utensils  were  unpacked  from 
the  backs  of  his  sumpter-mules,  and  the 
little  house  on  the  wall  was  soon  in  a 
habitable  condition. 

The  negro  of  Mukhtar  Pacha,  who 
possessed  the  curiosity  usual  to  his  race, 
remained  during  the  establishment,  and 
assisted  Leonidas  with  his  advice.  The 
Greek  in  turn,  who  did  nothing  without  a 
motive,  treated  him  with  the  greatest 
227 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

deference,  flattered  him  and  so  won  his 
confidence  that  in  an  hour  he  had  learned 
everything  about  Mukhtar  Pacha,  which 
he  wished  to  know. 

Meantime  the  cook  whose  name  was 
Assaf  disposed  his  stores  of  rice,  coffee, 
sugar,  and  spices,  and  sat  down  to  wait 
for  the  provisions  which  he  felt  sure 
the  Governor  would  send  his  master. 
But  no  provisions  coming,  he  finally 
sallied  forth  in  a  high  state  of  indigna- 
tion (followed  by  his  boy  with  a  basket) 
to  search  the  Bosnian  market. 

Meat  is  rare  in  Bosnia  with  the  excep- 
tion of  tame  ducks  and  game,  and  the 
choicest  food  is  furnished  by  the 
mountain  streams,  which  are  full  of 
trout  and  fresh-water  crabs.  Assaf 
soon  discovered  the  scarcity  of  meat 
and  returned  home  with  his  basket 
full  of  fish  and  vegetables,  tomatoes, 
cucumbers,  and  maize. 

Abul  Abbas  had  established  himself 
in  a  back  room,  which  had  a  latticed 
bay  window  hanging  out  over  the  water- 
fall and  commanded  the  view  up  and 
228 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

down  the  valley.  He  had  nothing  to 
do,  and  gave  himself  up  to  his  reflections. 
The  cold  reception  of  the  Pacha  had 
surprised  him;  being  so  high  in  favour 
with  the  Sultan,  he  expected  to  be 
treated  with  consideration  by  everybody, 
but  he  was  young  and  had  many  things 
to  learn. 

He  glanced  around  him  and  thought 
with  regret  of  his  luxurious  apartments 
in  the  Serail,  but  only  for  a  moment;  he 
was  a  soldier  and  independent  of  such 
things.  The  only  thing  he  dreaded  was 
inaction,  and  it  seemed  that  that  would 
be  his  destiny  here  in  Bosnia. 

He  knew  the  Sultan's  reason  for 
sending  him  away  from  Constantinople. 
His  fiery  disposition  would  not  brook 
the  tyranny  of  the  Janissaries  as  Mah- 
moud  himself  was  forced  at  times  to  do. 
Two  or  three  times  already  he  had 
opposed  himself  to  their  leader  Kara 
Makan,  and  though  his  daring  spirit 
had  carried  him  through  until  now,  the 
Sultan  knew  that  it  could  not  last,  and 
that  he  would  be  cut  short  in  the  flower 
229 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

of  his  career.  He  had  therefore  been 
saved  from  his  enemies,  and  from  him- 
self, and  exiled  that  he  might  live. 

At  dusk  Leonidas  entered,  lighted 
the  hanging  lanterns,  and  brought  up 
the  supper. 

"Bey  Effendi, "  he  said,  as  he  set 
down  the  tray  on  a  little  table,  brought 
like  everything  else  from  Stamboul, 
"there  is  no  meat  in  Jaice.  Assaf  has 
searched  the  town  in  vain,  and  Mukhtar 
Pacha  has  sent  you  nothing;  truly  he 
has   shown   you   but    scant   courtesy," 

"It  would  seem  so,"  replied  Abul 
Abbas,  and  he  began  his  supper  with  a 
good  appetite. 

Presently  Leonidas  resumed,  "nor  is 
his  house  so  small  or  so  crowded  that 
he  could  not  have  entertained  you.  I 
have  talked  with  Achmet,  the  guardian 
of   his   harem." 

"  Well, "  said  Abul  Abbas,  "  what  then 
was  his  reason?" 

"Jealousy,"  replied  the  Greek;  "he, 
has  a  beautiful  young  wife  who  does 
Iiot  love  him,  nay  Achmet  says  she 
230 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

hates  him,  and  therefore  he  dreads  the 
presence  of  a  man  so  young  and  hand- 
some in  his  house." 

"  I  should  not  see  her  in  any  case. " 

"  No,  but  she  could  see  you  through 
the  lattices,  and  women  always  find 
means  of  having  their  way.  She  will 
see  you  doubtless  as  it  is,  for  the  house 
has  no  garden,  and  all  the  windows 
look  out  on  the  street,  and  therefore 
Mukhtar  Pacha  resents  your  presence 
in  the  town." 

"  How  many  wives  has  he  ? "  asked 
Abul  Abbas.  "  I  know  he  has  a  son  in 
the  Sultan's  guards,  and  another  among 
the  pages." 

"  Yes,  and  two  married  daughters. 
All  the  children  of  his  first  wife,  but  she 
is  dead,  and  he  has  only  this  one  who  is 
said  to  be  so  beautiful.  She  is  a 
Persian." 

"A  Persian?" 

"  Yes,  Bey  Effendi.    Three  years  ago 

Mukhtar  Pacha  was   sent  to  Teheran, 

and  there  he  married  her,  I  know  not 

how,  but  Achmet  says  she  hates  him, 

231 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

and  pines  for  her  own  country.  Her 
nurse,  who  is  a  Persian  also  and  came 
with  her,  tells  him  that  she  finds  Mukh- 
tar  too  old.  When  they  were  married 
he  was  forty  and  she  fifteen,  and  the 
nurse  says  she  would  have  preferred  a 
youth  nearer  her  own  age.  But  be  that 
as  it  may,  she  is  not  happy.  The  Pacha 
does  everything  to  please  her  but  in 
vain.  She  makes  no  secret  of  her  in- 
difference for  him,  and  she  is  so  beau- 
tiful that  he  is  tormented  by  the  fear 
that  she  may  find  a  lover. " 

•  "Does  she  go  out?     I  would  that  I 
could  see  her,  even  veiled." 

"  Yes,  every  day  with  Achmet  and  her 
nurse.  And,  Bey  Effendi, "  and  the 
Greek  bent  down  and  whispered  in 
his  ear:  "You  can  see  her  if  you  will, 
unveiled." 

"How?"  asked  Abul  Abbas. 

Leonidas  went  and  looked  into  the 
next  room,  closed  the  door  which 
opened  on  the  staircase,  and  returned. 

"Bey  Effendi  "  he  said,  "this  eunuch 
is  to  be  bought.     I  have  talked  with 
232 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

him  and  know.  Doubtless  the  nurse 
could  be  bribed  as  well.  Mukhtar  is 
miserly  and  cruel,  his  people  do  not 
love  him.  The  town  is  small  and  every- 
day Feridah  Hanoum  walks  out  through 
the  lower  gate  and  along  the  river  with 
these  two  and  no  one  else.  They  meet 
no  one  but  the  peasants,  who  fear 
Mukhtar  too  much  to  interfere,  and  so 
the  Pacha  thinks  it  safe.  The  Persian 
is  young  and  beautiful,  and  Achmet 
thinks  that  she  would  like  a  lover." 

Abul  Abbas  threw  himself  back  among 
the  cushions  and  gazed  at  his  servant  as 
if  he  had  been  some  evil  jinn. 

"Leonidas,"  he  said,  "you  hate  this 
Mukhtar  Pacha,  why?" 

Instantly  the  Greek's  manner  changed. 
"Hate  him,"  he  said  indifferently,  "oh, 
no  I  only  thought  of  something  to  amuse 
my  master.  Had  the  Pacha  shown  you 
hospitality,  you  could  not  have  given 
his  wife  a  thought,  but  as  it  is,  you  owe 
him  nothing." 

"No,"  said  the  Bey,  whose  hot  young 
blood  was  stirred  by  the  thought  of  the 
233 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

adventure,  "that  is  true;  I  owe  him 
nothing.  I  will  try  and  see  the  beautiful 
Feridah." 

Leonidas,  as  if  in  search  of  something, 
left  the  room.  Outside  he  sat  down  on 
the  stairs  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands  overcome  by  his  emotions. 

"  I  have  not  worked  in  vain, "  he 
thought.  "  The  Albanian  is  wax  in  my 
hands.  I  will  make  him  the  instnmient 
of  my  revenge. " 

The  narrow  walls  of  the  Bosnian  house 
seemed  to  open  before  him,  and  he  saw 
the  square  of  Megara  swarming  with 
Turkish  soldiers  and  Greek  peasants 
pale  with  fear.  Two  notorious  Greek 
rebels  had  been  found  hidden  in  his 
father's  inn,  and  the  punishment  was 
swift  and  sure.  Once  more  he  saw  the 
Turkish  Pacha,  seated  calm  and  un- 
moved on  his  Arabian  horse,  and  heard 
him  give  his  orders.  The  inn  was  fired. 
He  saw  the  flames  burst  through  the 
windows  and  flicker  on  the  roof,  but 
a  sight  still  more  terrible  distracted 
his  attention.  His  father  was  dragged 
234 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

before  the  Pacha,  a  cord  was  placed 
around  his  neck,  and  he  was  strangled  in 
the  presence  of  hischildren,  Leonidas  and 
his  sister,  a  beautiful  girl  of  fifteen,  who 
stood  by,  weeping  in  each  other's  arms. 

And  then  brother  and  sister  were 
separated,  torn  apart,  their  hands  tied 
behind  them,  and  each  one  lifted  up 
behind  a  soldier  on  his  horse.  He  could 
hear  the  Pacha  say:  "The  boy  shall  go 
to  Stamboul,  the  girl  I  will  keep  myself," 
and  at  that  moment  the  thirst  for  ven- 
geance had  entered  into  his  heart,  and 
he  had  made  a  vow  that  if  it  cost  his  own 
life,  he  would  be  revenged  on  the  man 
who  had  done  all  this.  And  he  thanked 
heaven  that  he  knew  his  name,  Mukhtar 
Pacha ! 

He  had  never  seen  his  sister  again,  but 
he  had  learned  her  fate.  She  had  been 
betrothed  to  the  son  of  a  merchant  in 
Athens,  and  he  had  tried  to  find  and 
buy  her  back,  but  Mukhtar  Pacha  had 
kept  her  for  himself.  A  year  after- 
wards she  had  escaped,  rejoined  her 
betrothed,  and  they  had  fled  to  the 
235 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

mountains.  But  Mukhtar  had  pursued 
and  found  them.  They  had  been  brought 
back,  and  were  seen  again  no  more. 
Mukhtar  was  cruel  and  unrelenting  as 
the  grave,  and  their  fate  was  one  of  those 
mysteries  about  which  it  is  better  not  to 
ask. 

Through  Mukhtar,  his  father  had  lost 
his  life,  his  sister  her  honour,  and  he 
himself  his  liberty.  The  debt  was  heavy, 
and  Leonidas  sought  to  repay  the  Pacha 
in  his  own  coin — death  and  dishonour. 
But  to  do  so  he  needed  all  his  art,  never 
must  he  forget  himself,  and  now  he  rose 
and  re-entered  his  master's  presence 
with  a  smile. 

"Leonidas,"  said  Abul  Abbas,  "at 
what  hour  does  Mukhtar's  wife  walk 
by  the  river?" 

"I  will  discover,  Bey  Effendi.  You 
know  your  pleasure  is  my  first  con- 
sideration." 

"  Yes,  you  are  a  faithful  servant. " 

"  I  do  my  best.  There  are  but  two 
things  worthy  of  pursuit  for  a  young 
prince,  war  and  love.  I  fear  that  here 
236 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

in  Jaice  my  lord  will  pine  in  vain  for 
adventures  of  the  field  of  battle;  where- 
fore the  only  amusement  left  for  him  is 
love. " 

Far  into  the  night  Leonidas  was  spin- 
ning his  plans  of  vengeance  as  the  spider 
spins  his  web,  and  when  he  fell  asleep  in 
the  grey  dawn,  they  were  almost  spun. 


II 


The  next  morning  Abul  Abbas  rode 
down  into  the  valley  to  his  Spahis.  As 
he  passed  the  Governor's  house  he  rode 
very  slowly  and  looked  up  at  the  latticed 
windows.  He  saw  nothing  of  course, 
but  he  hoped  that  the  beautiful  Persian 
was  looking  down  at  him.  Arrived  at 
the  monastery  he  found  the  monks  and 
his  Spahis  all  in  a  bad  humour,  the 
result  of  their  forced  association. 

His  first  effort  was  with  the  monks. 
He  explained  to  them  that  the  soldiers 
were  quartered  there  by  the  orders  of 
the  Governor  and  through  no  desire  of 
his,  and  his  naturally  gracious  manner 
237 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

and  the  gift  of  a  few  pieces  of  gold 
coin  soon  won  over  his  unwilling 
hosts. 

With  the  soldiers  his  task  was  even 
easier.  He  merely  talked  to  them 
and  told  them  the  reception  he  had 
met  with  himself,  and  they  forgot 
their    own    dissatisfaction. 

As  he  rode  back  again  and  turned  the 
corner  of  the  Governor's  house,  a  small 
door,  doubtless  that  of  the  harem 
staircase,  opened,  and  three  figures  came 
out,  the  negro  and  two  women  com- 
pletely shrouded  in  black  ferejehs  and 
veils.  The  Albanian's  heart  beat  fast 
as  he  drew  rein  to  let  them  pass,  but  it 
was  impossible  to  tell  which  was  the 
beauty  and  which  the  nurse,  and  he  rode 
on  to  his  little  house  on  the  wall. 

In  the  afternoon  Leonidas  paid  a  long 
visit  to  Achmet  and  returned  with  all  the 
news,  with  which  he  entertained  his 
master  at  supper.  The  eunuch  had  told 
him  that  his  mistress  had  seen  Abul 
Abbas  in  the  street,  and  had  confided 
in  her  nurse  that  she  thought  him  very 
238 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

handsome  and  was  delighted  with  his 
Albanian  costume. 

Abul  Abbas  gave  him  a  piece  of  gold 
for  the  eunuch,  and  one  for  the  nurse, 
and  Leonidas  went  again  to  the  Gov- 
ernor's residence  after  supper,  and  soon 
returned  with  a  piece  of  information 
which,  to  the  Albanian,  seemed  very- 
cheap  at  two  pieces  of  gold.  The  beauti- 
ful Persian  it  seemed  went  every  day  to 
a  certain  secluded  spot  on  the  river  to 
bathe.  A  small  kiosk  had  been  con- 
structed there  for  her  use,  and  this  kiosk, 
the  two  servants  decided,  offered  the 
possibility  of  a  rendezvous. 

Abul  Abbas  was  really  excited  now, 
and  imagined  himself  already  in  love 
with  the  beautiful  Persian.  Youth  will 
love  and  must  love  as  it  can,  and  in 
the  Orient  V amour  s'attrape  par  Voreille. 
The  next  day  he  met  the  veiled  figures 
again  in  the  street  not  once  but  twice, 
and  both  times  they  stopped  and  looked 
at  him.  Abul  Abbas  was  in  haste,  and 
would  have  sent  more  gold  to  the  Pacha's 
servants,  but  the  Greek  restrained  him. 
239 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

"  You  have  shown  them  that  you  have 
money,"  he  said,  "and  it  is  enough. 
Do  not  pay  for  what  you  want  before, 
but  afterwards." 

The  third  day  they  met  again,  and  that 
evening  after  supper,  Leonidas  informed 
his  master  that  he  thought  the  rendez- 
vous might  take  place  on  the  morrow. 
Abul  Abbas  was  overjoyed.  "But  are 
you  sure,"  he  asked,  "that  Feridah 
Hanoum  will  receive  me?" 

"  Yes, "  said  Leonidas,  "  it  is  her  wish. 
The  eunuch  and  the  nurse  are  ours,  and 
everything  is  arranged.  I  think  we  are 
sure  of  success,  but,"  he  added  care- 
lessly, "  of  course  we  will  risk  our  lives. " 

"  Of  course, "  replied  Abul  Abbas  with 
a  smile,  "love  has  its  perils  as  well  as 
war,  but  in  the  danger  lies  the  charm. 
After  all  it  makes  no  difference,  we 
all  die  when  our  time  comes  and  not 
before. " 

The  next  morning  Abul  Abbas  with 
Leonidas  and  two  of  his  Spahis  started 
out  on  horseback  with  guns  over  their 
shoulders  as  if  in  search  of  game. 
240 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

For  some  distance  up  the  river  they 
rode,  and  a  mile  or  more  beyond  the 
kiosk  of  Feridah  Hanoum,  the  red 
roof  of  which,  visible  through  the 
bushes,  the  Greek  (who  had  carefully 
reconnoitred  the  spot)  pointed  out  to 
his  master.  The  rendezvous  was  to  be 
at  noon,  and,  having  reached  a  village 
the  Albanian  and  his  suite  dismounted, 
and  ordering  his  soldiers  to  guard  the 
horses  and  not  to  stir  from  the  spot  until 
his  return,  Abul  Abbas,  followed  by  his 
servant,  struck  off  on  foot  up  the  side 
of  the  mountain  to  look  for  imaginary 
birds. 

They  ascended  till  they  were  lost  to 
sight  from  the  village  among  the  trees, 
then  walked  in  a  straight  line  along  the 
side  of  the  mountain  till  they  were 
opposite  the  kiosk,  and  then  descend- 
ing to  within  a  few  paces  of  the  road, 
sat  down  among  the  underbrush  to 
await  the  signal  which  had  been  agreed 
upon.  Ten  minutes  perhaps  elapsed,  and 
then  they  saw  above  the  bushes  a  white 
scarf,  waved  for  a  moment  in  the  air. 
»6  241 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

Abul  Abbas  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
dashed  down  across  the  road  and  in 
among  the  bushes,  his  heart  beating 
quickly  with  excitement,  his  cheeks 
flushed,  and  his  eyes  sparkling  with 
anticipated  pleasure.  He  was  young 
and  his  blood  ran  through  his  veins  like 
fire.  The  Greek  followed  him,  and  once 
well  among  the  bushes,  they  saw  a 
black  hand  beckoning  from  behind  a 
willow  tree,  and  in  another  moment  met 
the  eunuch  in  front  of  the  kiosk.  This 
was  a  small  square  wooden  building  with 
a  latticed  window  and  a  narrow  door. 

Achmet  led  the  Greek  round  to  the 
other  side  nearest  the  river,  and  then 
returning  took  Abul  Abbas  by  the  hand, 
opened  the  door,  and  pushed  him  in 
shutting  it  again  behind  him,  and  stand- 
ing guard  outside.  For  a  moment  the 
Albanian,  coming  from  the  brilliant 
noonday  could  see  nothing;  but  a  woman 
whom  he  knew  must  be  the  nurse  ap- 
proached, and  took  him  by  the  hand, 
and  then  the  dusk  seemed  to  clear  up 
around  him,  and  he  looked  and  saw. 
242 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

The  fair  Persian  was  seated  on  a  bench 
over  which  had  been  thrown  a  Bosnian 
rug,  and  as  Abul  Abbas  looked  at  her, 
he  did  not  know  which  surprised  him 
most,  her  beauty  or  her  costume,  for 
she  wore  the  Persian  dress.  Feridah 
was  white  as  alabaster  with  features  of 
faultless  beauty,  black  eyes  like  a  gazelle, 
and  coral  lips  which  seemed  made  only 
to  be  kissed.  Her  hair,  like  waved 
black  silk,  was  drawn  up  on  her  head 
and  then  let  fall  again  in  rippling  masses 
to  her  waist.  On  her  head  she  wore  a 
small  pink  silk  turban  striped  with  gold, 
fastened  on  one  side  with  a  bunch  of 
flowers  made  of  gold  wire  and  precious 
stones. 

Her  dress  consisted  of  a  tight-fitting 
bodice  of  purple  satin  embroidered  in 
gold,  cut  out  in  front  in  a  broad  square, 
which  revealed  the  snowy  whiteness  of 
her  throat  and  bosom,  and  with  tight 
sleeves  which  ended  at  the  elbow,  and 
showed  her  round  white  arms,  circled 
with  diamond  bracelets,  and  her  delicate 
hands  loaded  with  rings.  Her  trousers 
243 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

were  of  pink  silk  striped  with  gold,  and 
so  full  that  they  hung  like  a  skirt;  but 
unlike  the  Turkish  trousers  which  reach 
the  ankle,  they  ended  at  the  knee,  and 
after  the  amazing  custom  of  the  Persian 
women,  who  only  shoe  themselves  to  go 
out,  her  feet  and  legs  were  bare. 

Abul  Abbas  had  spent  his  childhood 
in  the  Sultan's  harem,  and  his  youth 
was  not  absolutely  that  of  an  anchorite, 
but  he  felt  as  he  looked  at  Feridah  that 
he  had  never  had  such  a  revelation  of 
beauty  before.  There  is  no  precedent  to 
guide  the  Oriental  lover,  but  Abul  Abbas 
trusted  in  God  and  in  himself,  and  after 
gazing  at  the  beautiful  Persian  for  a 
moment  in  silence,  he  stepped  forward, 
sank  on  one  knee  before  her,  and  took 
and  kissed  her  hand- 

Feridah  looked  at  him  and  smiled,  and 
then  speaking  in  Turkish  with  a  foreign 
accent,  invited  him  to  sit  beside  her.  He 
accepted  the  invitation  and  began  to 
speak:  "Hanoum,"  he  said,  "I  can 
never  thank  you  enough  for  your  good- 
ness in  receiving  me." 
244 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

"No,"  replied  the  Persian  calmly, 
"it  is  you  who  are  good  to  come,  for  in 
doing  so  you  run  the  greatest  risk. " 

"Ah,  Hanoum, "  said  Abul  Abbas, 
"the  risk  is  nothing  when  the  stake  is 
Paradise." 

The  beautiful  Feridah  smiled.  "  You 
talk,"  she  said,  "like  a  Persian.  The 
Turks  do  not  value  the  flowers  of  lan- 
guage, and  their  only  pride  is  to  speak 
the  truth." 

Abul  Abbas  reflected  that  truth  was 
not,  at  least  in  Turkey,  an  attribute  ever 
ascribed  to  the  Persians,  but  this  lady 
seemed  indeed  entirely  straightforward, 
and  he  contented  himself  with  replying 
that  he  was  by  birth  an  Albanian. 

"Everything,"  said  Feridah,  "which 
reminds  me  of  my  country  fills  me  with 
delight.  I  am,  and  always  will  be,  a 
stranger  here." 

Abul  Abbas  was  more  Turkish  than 
the  Turks.  He  knew  the  Turkish  Em- 
pire was  full  of  aliens  brought  there  for 
the  most  part  against  their  will.  In  the 
Serail  itself  nearly  all  were  slaves  or 

245 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

captives  like  himself.  But  they  all 
wore  smiling  faces  and  he,  who  thought 
Turkey  the  one  country  in  the  world 
and  the  Serail  the  centre  around  which 
everything  revolved,  supposed  (if  he 
thought  of  it  at  all)  that  they  all  con- 
sidered their  captivity  as  much  their 
good  fortune  as  he  did  his  own.  Now 
for  the  first  time  the  sadness  in  Feridah's 
tone  made  him  feel  that  one  might  love 
one's  own  country  better  than  even 
the  Ottoman  Empire;  but  even  then 
it  was  a  feeling  for  which  he  sought  an 
explanation. 

"  You  do  not  love  your  husband, "  he 
said,  "or  his  country  would  be  yours." 

"No,"  said  Feridah,  "I  do  not. 
Mukhtar  Pacha  is  a  man  whom  no 
woman  could  love.  He  is  hard,  cruel, 
and  avaricious.  It  is  true  he  loves  me, 
at  least  with  what  he  calls  love,  and 
tries  to  please  me;  but  I  have  only  to 
look  around  me  to  know  what  he  really 
is.  At  my  father's  house  in  Teheran, 
we  had  many  slaves,  but  they  had  been 
ours  always,  and  loved  us  and  considered 
246 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

that  they  belonged  to  our  family.  Here 
there  is  not  a  woman  in  our  harem 
who  has  been  bought  with  money. 
Mukhtar  has  torn  them  all  from  their 
homes  when  they  were  old  enough  to 
remember,  and  the  tales  they  tell  of  him 
and  his  atrocities  make  my  blood  run 
cold. " 

"  Mukhtar  is  undoubtedly  a  hard  and 
cruel  man,"  said  Abul  Abbas,  "but  do 
not  judge  all  Turks  by  him.  I  also  am 
a  prisoner  of  war,  but  I  was  adopted  by 
the  Sultan,  and  have  found  in  my  cap- 
tivity a  happy  and  brilliant  life,  which 
would  never  have  been  mine  at  home. " 

Feridah  looked  at  him  in  wonder. 
"Then,"  she  said,  "you  do  not  remem- 
ber, you  know  nothing  but  the  Serail. 
I  think  always  of  my  home,  our  beautiful 
palace  and  garden,  where  I  and  my  sis- 
ters were  as  happy  as  the  days  were  long. 
Mukhtar  came  to  Teheran ;  he  heard  of  us 
and  the  Shah  wishing  to  please  him, 
ordered  my  father  to  give  him  one  of  his 
daughters.  Two  were  already  betrothed 
and  the  other  was  too  young.  I  was  the 
247 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

victim.  My  only  comfort  was  that  I 
could  bring  with  me  my  nurse.  She 
loved  me  as  her  own  child,  and  we  talk 
always  of  our  happy  days  in  Teheran." 

Abul  Abbas  began  to  realise  that  she 
sought  his  aid  in  escaping  from  her 
husband  and  returning  to  her  own  land ; 
but  he  knew  that  his  duty  to  the  Sultan 
made  such  an  undertaking  impossible 
for  him. 

"Hanoum, "  he  said,  "I  would  gladly 
give  my  life  for  you,  but  I  cannot  take 
you  back  to  Persia.  All  countries  are 
alike  when  the  sun  shines  on  them  and 
all  alike  when  it  is  dark.  Love  was  the 
sunshine  of  your  happiness  at  home! 
With  another  love,  that  love  you  have 
not  known,  you  will  be  more  happy 
here. " 

He  spoke  so  passionately  that  Feridah 
realised  in  her  turn  why  he  had  come 
to  her. 

"Another  love,"  she  said,  "yes,  if  I 
could  have  that. " 

"It  is  yours  already,"  cried  the  Al- 
banian falling  on  one  knee  before  her, 
248 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

and  taking  both  her  hands.  "Feridah, 
no  man  could  see  you  and  not  love  you. 
I  lay  my  heart  at  your  feet. " 

Feridah  flushed  with  more  than 
pleasure.  The  Albanian  was  young, 
handsome,  and  full  of  fire,  and  he  was 
her  first  lover.  She  did  not  answer,  but 
she  leant  forward,  and  the  next  instant 
she  was  in  his  arms,  and  they  had  given 
each  other  their  first  kiss.  The  nurse 
sat  stoically  in  the  comer;  she  had  not 
learned  Turkish,  and  could  not  follow 
the  conversation;  but  she  knew  that  all 
love  scenes  are  aHke. 

Presently  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door.  It  was  Achmet  giving  the  signal 
which  Mahaferid  repeated  to  her  mis- 
tress, that  it  was  time  for  the  Bey  to 
withdraw. 

A  few  minutes  after,  the  Albanian 
and  the  Greek  were  once  more  in  ambush 
on  the  mountain  side,  and  Abul  Abbas 
watched  with  a  beating  heart  the  three 
figures  emerge  from  the  bushes,  and 
knew  by  the  graceful  carriage  only,  that 
the  one  who  walked  in  the  middle  and 
249 


The  Heart  of  Bosoia 

wore  yellow  boots  was  the  bcatitifcl 
Persian,  the  wnoan  he  nov  loved.  He 
said  notlmig,  bat  the  Gcedc  read  Mm 
Hke  a  book,  and  all  the  wxy  back  alocg 
the  mountain,  cuMgiatwbtrd  hinwrlff  oc 
the  sacccss  ci  his  cntrfpriiie.  When 
they  leached  the  village,  tkej  cam- 
plainfd  at  not  finding  aayyine.«ad.  to 
avoid  siispicioa.  lemoanfeBd  their  booBS 
and  rode  farther  vp  tiie  vali^. 

Abol  Abbas  forced  bimaelE  to  be  cdm 
and  seem  iwbffcrcpt,  bat  his  hcsrt  vas 
filled  vrath  a  vild  and  sodden  joy  vAicfa 
wade  hini  loni^  to  ^hiwrt  and  saec.  It 
his  fiist  real  kyvie  advcnfaiCL    The 


As  they  rode  past  the ' 

Abol  Abbas  looked  vp  at  the 

and  thoQcli  he  saw  noUnvc;.  he  htk.  tkat 

thebeamlifai  FendA  vws  ■■litin,  fcc 

and  lookxag  dmm  at  kiHL 

That  cvmini^  at  saqiper  he  VMSTeiy 
SKf.  and  talked  a  groat  deal  vj^thLinai 
das»  msaqr  the  Gmek  to  wo^iBr  hicz 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

as  indeed  he  was  working  for  himself, 
but  he  had  no  idea  of  spoihng  his  plans 
by  undue  haste,  and  explained  to  his 
master  that  their  motto  must  be  Fes- 
tina  lente. 


Ill 


Mukhtar  Pacha  had  not  returned  the 
visit  of  Abul  Abbas,  but,  acting  on  the 
advice  of  his  servant,  the  Albanian 
ignored  this  inattention,  and  went  to 
visit  him  again  the  next  morning. 

The  Pacha  again  received  him  coldly, 
but  Abul  Abbas,  who  had  come  for  a  pur- 
pose, overlooked  this,  and,  as  instructed 
by  Leonidas,  discoursed  with  great  anim- 
ation on  the  pleasures  of  shooting  in  the 
mountains,  and  declared  that,  as  far  as 
his  military  duties  (which  were  nothing) 
would  permit,  he  meant  to  give  himself 
up  to  the  invigorating  sport.  Mukhtar 
fell  into  the  trap  as  the  Greek  intended, 
considered  the  Albanian  well  disposed 
of,  and  troubled  himself  about  him  no 
more. 

251 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

Abul  Abbas  spent  the  afternoon  at 
the  monastery  with  the  monks  and 
Spahis,  but  time  dragged;  he  was  im- 
patient to  see  Peridah  again,  and  after 
supper  sent  Leonidas  to  arrange  another 
interview.  The  answer  was  favourable, 
Achmet  promising  in  the  name  of  his 
lady  another  interview  at  the  kiosk  on 
the  river. 

Everything  seemed  to  be  going  well, 
almost  too  well.  Abul  Abbas  himself 
was  struck  by  the  ease  with  which  things 
arranged  themselves.  It  seemed  strange, 
as  he  remarked  to  Leonidas,  that  a  man 
so  jealous  as  Mukhtar  Pacha  would 
allow  his  wife  to  go  out  with  only  two 
attendants  or  to  bathe  in  the  river  at  all. 

These  reflections  on  the  part  of  his 
master  convinced  the  Greek  that  he  had 
not  lost  his  head  as  well  as  his  heart. 
He  congratulated  himself  on  the  dis- 
covery, and  explained  the  situation  by 
saying  that  the  Pacha  had  absolute 
confidence  in  Achmet,  and  was  reas- 
sured on  the  score  of  Abul  Abbas  on 
finding  him  absorbed  in  the  chase. 
252 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

To  carry  out  the  latter  illusion,  the 
Albanian  and  the  Greek  started  out  the 
next  morning  with  guns  and  game-bags, 
but  this  time  leaving  the  Spahis  behind. 
They  rode  up  the  valley  and  left  their 
horses  at  the  village  as  before,  and  again 
struck  up  the  mountain,  made  their  way 
through  the  bushes,  and  waited  for  the 
signal  as  before. 

Again  the  white  cloth  was  waved  and 
again  Abul  Abbas  flew  to  his  lady  on  the 
wings  of  love.  An  Oriental  wooing  goes 
quickly.  The  ice  had  been  well  broken 
on  the  first  occasion,  and  this  time  they 
met  as  lovers.  Abul  Abbas  took  Peri- 
dah  in  his  arms,  and  she  clasped  hers 
around  his  neck  and  gave  him  back  his 
kisses.  Mahaferid,  the  nurse,  sat  and 
looked  on  apparently  without  emotion, 
but  really  with  entire  satisfaction,  for 
she  loved  and  sympathised  with  her 
nursling,  and,  knowing  her  to  be  un- 
happy with  her  husband,  was  glad  that 
she  had  found  a  lover. 

To-day  there  was  more  light  in  the 
kiosk,  for  a  tile  had  fallen  off  the  roof, 

253 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

and  a  long  sunbeam  shot  in  like  a  golden 
arrow.  Abul  Abbas  gazed  at  Feridah, 
and  she  at  him.  Their  conversation, 
like  that  of  most  lovers,  would  look  in- 
consequential if  printed,  but  to  them 
it  was  of  significance,  and  they  were 
perfectly  happy  holding  each  other's 
hands,  and  looking  into  each  other's  eyes. 

The  Albanian  indeed  wished  for  some- 
thing more,  and  urged  her  to  fly  with  him. 
But  she  answered  simply:  "Where? 
Where  beyond  the  power  of  Mukhtar? 
You  say  you  cannot  take  me  back  to 
Persia,  and  in  Turkey  he  would  find  us. 
It  is  already  a  great  deal  that  we  can 
meet  thus,  and  we  must  be  satisfied." 

Then  she  asked  him  if  he  was  not 
named  after  the  first  Khalif  of  the 
Abbassids,  and  showed  him  that  she 
knew  some  history,  for  she  could  read 
and  write.  She  complained  that  the 
name  was  long  and  that  she  would  have 
one  for  him  all  her  own,  saying  that 
she  would  call  him  by  the  Khalif 's  other 
name,  Safar.  Abul  Abbas  knew  the 
significance  of  this  name  was  bad,  but 
254 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

she  knew  no  Arabic,  and  only  that  it  was 
sweet  to  the  ear,  so  he  accepted  it,  and 
henceforth  she  called  him  always  Safar. 

This  time  he  lingered  with  her  longer 
than  the  last,  and  Achmet  repeated  his 
summons  several  times  before  he  tore 
himself  away.  Then,  for  greater  cau- 
tion, he  and  the  Greek  pursued  their 
hunt  into  the  mountains,  and  not  till 
evening  did  they  return  to  Jaice. 

The  next  day  Abul  Abbas  perforce 
went  hunting.  In  the  Serail  he  had 
been  taught  the  art  of  war,  but  he  knew 
nothing  of  sport,  and  found  it  trivial 
and  uninteresting.  But  hunt  he  must, 
and  he  began  to  realise  that  he  who  lives 
a  deception  walks  no  easy  road. 

That  evening  Achmet  came  in  great 
excitement  to  visit  Leonidas  and  when 
he  had  left,  the  Greek  informed  his 
master  that  Mukhtar  Pacha  was  going 
on  a  three  days'  hunting  trip,  and  that 
he  considered  this  would  be  their  great 
opportunity,  provided  the  Pacha  did  not 
spoil  everything  by  inviting  Abul  Abbas 
to  go  with  him,  Achmet  had  also 
255 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

brought  the  promise  of  another  rendez- 
vous for  the  next  morning,  and  Leonidas 
instructed  Abul  Abbas  to  make  use  of 
this  to  persuade  the  beautiful  Persian 
to  come  and  sup  with  him  at  his  house 
on  the  first  evening  of  the  Pacha's  de- 
parture. 

The  Albanian  was  charmed  with  this 
plan  if  it  could  only  be  carried  out, 
commended  the  Greek  warmly  for  his 
devotion,  and  gave  him  three  pieces  of 
gold.  Little  did  he  know  that  his 
servant  was  working,  not  for  him,  but 
for  himself,  and  that  in  this  affair,  which 
progressed  as  if  by  magic,  he  was  the 
slave  and  Leonidas  the  master. 

The  next  day  Abul  Abbas  met  Feridah 
at  the  bathing  kiosk  for  the  third  time. 
When  they  were  seated  side  by  side,  he 
asked  her  when  Mukhtar  Pacha  would 
start  on  his  hunting  expedition.  Feri- 
dah replied  that  he  would  start  the 
next  afternoon,  and  that  the  party  would 
last  three  days,  whereupon  the  Alban- 
ian, with  all  the  abruptness  of  an  impa- 
tient passion,  asked  her  to  come  and 
256 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

sup  with  him  the  next  evening  at  his 
house. 

Feridah  was  startled,  and  declared 
that  it  would  be  impossible,  but  Abul 
Abbas  explained  to  her  his,  or  rather 
his  servant's,  plan,  Leonidas  would 
procure  the  dress  of  a  Bosnian  peasant 
woman,  and  send  it  to  her  by  Achmet. 
As  soon  as  it  was  dark,  she  would  put 
it  on,  and  Achmet  would  let  her  out  of 
the  harem  entrance.  The  Greek  would 
be  waiting  for  her  in  the  street  and  con- 
duct her  to  the  little  house  on  the  wall, 
and  if  any  one  met  them,  she  would  pass 
for  a  peasant  woman  with  whom  the 
Bey's  servant  had  made  a  chance 
acquaintance » 

Feridah  thought  the  plan  a  good  one, 

"But  Safar,"  she  said,  "I  cannot 
come  alone." 

"Achmet  cannot  accompany  you. 
He  might  be  recognised,  and  all  would 
be  lost.  My  servant  will  guard  you  as 
he  would  his  life," 

"But  Safar,"  she  said,  "Mahaferid 
must  come  with  me;  let  your  servant 
17  257 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

bring  a  dress  for  her  also.  I  cannot 
come  to  you  alone." 

"Feridah,"  said  the  Albanian,  "do 
you  not  love  me?" 

"Yes,  Safar,"  she  said,  and  she  put 
her  hand  in  his. 

"Then  come  to  me  alone." 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  would  not 
urge  her  further,  but  left  it  to  herself. 
But  at  their  parting,  when  he  held  her 
in  his  arms,  he  said,  "Feridah,  I  will 
send  two  dresses,  but  I  will  hope  that 
there  will  be  need  of  only  one." 

Still  she  did  not  answer,  but  she 
looked  at  him  and  kissed  him  with  all 
the  love  that  he  desired. 

The  next  day  Abul  Abbas,  for  the 
sake  of  appearances  and  much  against 
his  will,  went  out  hunting  again.  But 
this  time  his  penance  was  not  too  long, 
for  at  three  o'clock  as  he  sat  with  his 
servant  on  the  side  of  the  mountain, 
well  concealed  and  thinking  of  far  other 
game  than  birds,  he  had  the  pleaoure 
of  seeing  the  Pacha  riding  up  the  valley 
followed  by  quite  a  numerous  train, 
258 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

equipped  with  all  the  weapons  and  ac- 
cessories of  the  chase. 

Hardly  were  they  out  of  sight  when 
the  impatient  lover  descended  from  his 
perch  and,  followed  by  his  servant, 
returned  with  incredible  speed  to  Jaice. 
There  the  little  house  was  in  a  bustle  in 
which  the  two  hunters  at  once  took  their 
part.  Assaf  had,  in  the  early  morning, 
scoured  the  town  and  returned  trium- 
phant, laden  with  the  spoils  of  forest 
and  stream,  to  say  nothing  of  the  gifts 
of  the  garden,  vegetables,  fruit,  and 
flowers.  A  sumptuous  supper  was  there- 
fore now  in  preparation. 

The  flowers  were  lying  together  in  a 
heap,  and  Abul  Abbas,  who  had  never 
in  his  life  attempted  such  a  thing,  took 
them  and  twined  them  into  garlands 
and  hung  them  round  the  white  walls 
of  his  three  living  rooms.  Quantities 
of  candles  were  arranged  wherever  place 
cotdd  be  found  for  them,  and  as  it  grew 
dark,  the  Greek  lit  them,  and  went  to 
fetch  Feridah.  Abul  Abbas  had  arrayed 
himself  in  his  greatest  splendour  of  crim- 

259 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

son  and  gold.  He  wore  his  whitest  kilt 
and  all  his  jewels,  and  now  waited  with 
impatience,  asking  himself  over  and 
over  again  the  great  question  whether 
or  not  Feridah  would  come  to  him  alone. 

A  short  time  passed,  and  then  he 
heard  the  house  door  open  and  close 
again  and  a  step  on  the  stair,  but  one, 
it  seemed,  that  of  Leonidas.  The  door 
opened,  and  the  Greek  entered,  and  be- 
hind him  a  Bosnian  peasant  woman, 
whose  step  had  made  no  sound  because 
her  feet  were  bare. 

Abul  Abbas  looked  at  her  for  an  in- 
stant in  silence.  The  Bosnian  dress  is 
graceful  and  becoming.  She  wore  a 
white  linen  skirt  and  tunic,  and  a  short 
sleeveless  vest,  which  was  of  crimson 
velvet  embroidered  in  gold,  cut  heart- 
shaped  in  the  neck.  Wide,  white  sleeves 
showed  her  white  arms  inside,  and  on 
her  head  she  wore  a  gold  embroidered 
cap  from  which  fell  a  spangled  veil. 

Leonidas,  with  a  deep  bow,  withdrew 
and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  Feri- 
dah looked  at  the  Albanian  Prince  and 
260 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

smiled,  and  in  one  step  he  was  beside 
her,  and  held  her  in  his  arms. 

"Feridah,"  he  said,  "you  have 
come,  you  have  come  as  I  asked  you; 
you  love  me  ?" 

"Yes,  Safar,"  she  answered,  and  her 
look  was  a  complete  surrender.  "I 
love  you,  and  I  have  come  alone." 

Half  an  hour  later  Leonidas  returned 
with  the  first  course  of  the  supper  on  a 
round  brass  tray,  and  found  the  lovers 
sitting  together  on  the  divan  in  the  room 
which  overlooked  the  waterfall,  amid 
the  splendour  of  candles  and  flowers. 

Course  after  course  he  carried  in  and 
out,  and  finally  when  he  brought  the 
coffee  and  bon-bons,  it  was  nine  o'clock. 
Then  as  he  retreated  he  beckoned  to  his 
master,  and  Abul  Abbas  followed  him 
into  the  next  room.  There  he  whispered 
in  his  ear  that  all  was  well,  and  that  he 
would  keep  guard,  and  come  just  before 
the  dawn  and  take  the  lady  home. 

Abul  Abbas  told  him  that  he  was  the 
best  and  most  faithful  of  servants,  and 
gave  him  a  gold  piece  and  he  retired, 
261 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

carefully  shutting  the  door.     The  lovers 
were  alone  and  in  Paradise. 


IV 


Mukhtar  Pacha  had  stopped  for  the 
night  at  a  village  which  was  a  three 
hours'  ride  from  Jaice.  He  had  taken 
up  his  quarters  in  the  house  of  a  rich 
peasant,  and  midnight  found  him  peace- 
fully asleep. 

The  whole  village  slumbered,  includ- 
ing the  guards  on  duty  at  the  door,  till 
suddenly  the  silence  was  broken  by  the 
sound  of  horses'  hoofs  at  full  gallop  on 
the  road,  and  the  sentinels  were  reluc- 
tantly awakened  by  a  voice  that  called 
loudly  for  Mukhtar  Pacha,  The  Pacha 
was  a  soldier,  and  the  Turkish  Empire 
ever  in  a  state  of  war,  so  that  the  guards 
awoke  his  body  servant,  who  did  not 
hesitate  to  rouse  his  master.  Mukhtar 
was  soon  awake,  and  the  stranger,  who 
wore  the  dress  of  a  Franciscan  monk, 
was  admitted  to  his  presence. 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  the  Pacha, 
262 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

looking  at  his  visitor,  "and  what  do 
you  seek  that  deserves  to  break  my 
rest?" 

The  monk  threw  back  his  cowl,  and 
showed  a  dark  tragic  face  framed  in  a 
wild  black  beard  and  bushy  hair. 

"I  have  come,"  he  said,  "to  warn 
you  to  return  to  Jaice  at  once;  your 
honour  has  been  betrayed." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cried  Mukhtar 
fiercely,  seizing  the  sword  which  lay 
beside  him, 

"What  I  say,"  replied  the  monk; 
"you  have  a  young  wife,  a  Persian  whom 
you  love,  but  who  has  never  loved  you 
in  return.  Go  home  and  look  for  her  in 
your  harem;  you  will  not  find  her. 
She  is  in  the  arms  of  her  lover." 

The  last  words  were  pronounced  with 
a  terrible  emphasis.  The  Pacha  was  a 
brave  man,  but  there  was  something 
about  this  strange  midnight  visitor  that 
chilled  his  blood. 

"Who,"  he  asked,  "is  her  lover?" 

"The  Albanian  Prince  who  is  known 
as  Abul  Abbas  Bey." 
263 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

Mukhtar  sprang  to  his  feet  like  a 
tiger.  "How  do  you  know  this?"  he 
asked. 

"I  know  everything,"  replied  the 
monk.  "I  have  the  gift  of  second 
sight." 

Mukhtar  sank  back  on  the  divan 
again.  Like  most  Orientals  he  was 
very  superstitious.  And  the  monk  con- 
tinued: "Return  with  me,  I  will  guide 
you ;  you  will  find  her  in  his  arms. " 

The  Pacha  tried  to  look  at  him 
steadily. 

"Why  have  you  come  to  me?"  he 
asked.  "You  are  a  monk  and  a  Christ- 
ian; I,  a  Turkish  Pacha.  What  is  this 
to  you?" 

"I  have  made  it,"  replied  the  monk, 
"my  mission  to  punish  sin." 

Again  his  tone  was  terrible. 

"Give  me  then,"  said  the  Pacha,  "a 
proof  of  your  second  sight? " 

"I  will,"  replied  the  monk.  "  You  were 

bom  at  Broussa  at  the  feast  of  Bairam 

at  the  third  hour  of  the  third  day.     You 

have  a  blue  mark  on  your  left  shoulder. 

5264 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

Your  second  son  has  inherited  it.  Your 
career  has  been  brilliant  and  successful. 
At  twenty-eight  you  were  made  a  Pacha, 
and  sent  as  Governor  to  Athens.  You 
had  one  wife,  Velie  Hanoum.  She  loved 
you,  and  though  you  had  many  slaves, 
none  of  whom  you  bought  with  money, 
she  was  jealous  of  but  one,  a  Greek 
girl  named  lanthe.  She  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  an  innkeeper  at  Megara,  whose 
inn  you  burned  and  whom  you  had  bow- 
strung  in  his  daughter's  presence.  The 
girl  resented  it.  She  ran  away  from 
you  with  a  young  man  to  whom  she  was 
betrothed.  You  caught  and  brought 
them  back,  the  girl " 

"I  hung  up  by  her  thumbs.  She  was 
strong  and  lived  two  days." 

"A  good  punishment,"  said  the  monk 
calmly.  "  After  that  Velie  Hanoum  was 
no  more  jealous,  but  she  died  ere  long, 
leaving  you  four  fine  children.  You 
went  to  Persia  and  brought  back  the 
beautiful  Peridah.  She  is  as  white  as 
snow,  with  eyes  like  a  gazelle,  and  goes 
barefooted.  You  give  her  too  much 
26§ 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

liberty.  She  goes  every  day  to  bathe  in 
the  river,  and  three  times  she  has  met 
the  Albanian  there.  Do  you  believe 
that  I  know  everything,  or  shall  I  tell 
you  more?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Pacha,  "I  believe 
you  do.     What  is  your  advice?" 

"  Return  with  me  to  Jaice  at  once.  I 
have  a  key  which  opens  every  door  and 
will  admit  you  to  the  Albanian's  house. 
It  is  unguarded.  He  has  sent  his  serv- 
ants out  of  the  way,  and  you  will  find 
him  and  your  wife  alone." 

Mukhtar  writhed  under  these  last 
words.  The  monk  looked  at  him  and 
saw  that  he  loved  his  wife  and  what 
he  suffered;  and  a  strange  smile  flitted 
across  his  face. 

"We  must  start  at  once,"  he  con- 
tinued, "or  we  will  come  too  late.  Or- 
der me  a  fresh  horse ;  I  have  already 
ridden  far  and  mine  is  jaded." 

His  tone  was  one  of  command,  which 

the  Pacha  would  not  have  brooked  at 

any  other  time;  but  it  seemed  as  if  this 

stranger  wielded  a  mesmeric   influence 

266 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

over  him  which  it  was  impossible  to 
resist. 

"How  many  men  shall  I  take  with 
us?''  asked  the  Pacha. 

"None,"  replied  the  monk  firmly; 
"you  will  take  your  sword,  and  I  will 
carry  your  pistols,  that  I  may  hand  them 
to  you  at  the  right  moment.  You  will 
find  the  Albanian  not  only  alone,  but 
unarmed  and  asleep.  It  will  be  a  most 
unequal  contest,  and  to  make  it  more 
would  be  unworthy  a  man  as  brave  as 
Mukhtar  Pacha." 

"You  are  right,"  replied  the  Pacha, 
whose  will  bent  entirely  to  the  monk's; 
"but  tell  me  one  thing  more:  you  wish 
the  death  of  the  Albanian,  and  why?" 

"  Because  he  was  baptised  a  Christian, 
and  is  a  renegade.  I  have  already  told 
you  that  my  mission  is  the  punishment 
of  sin." 

The  Pacha  was  satisfied,  called  his 
servants,  and  ordered  that  two  of  his 
fastest  horses  should  be  saddled  at  once. 
The  man  to  whom  the  command  was 
given  wondered,  but  dared  ask  no  ques- 
267 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

tions  and  retired.  Mukhtar  made  ready, 
fastened  on  his  sword,  and  gave  the 
monk  a  pair  of  loaded  pistols,  which  the 
latter  stuck  carelessly  in  the  cord 
around  his  waist.  Then  they  descended 
the  stairs,  mounted  their  horses,  and, 
to  the  amazement  of  the  guards  and  the 
servant,  rode  away  into  the  night. 

The  way  was  long  and  when  Mukhtar 
Pacha  knocked  with  his  sword  hilt  on 
the  gate  of  Jaice,  the  dawn  already 
glimmered  in  the  east.  The  sentinel 
opened  the  wicket,  and  looked  out,  and 
then,  seeing  the  Governor  attended  only 
by  a  strange  monk,  asked  no  questions, 
but  threw  open  half  the  gate.  The  two 
wayfarers  rode  into  the  town  with  a 
clatter  of  hoofs  upon  the  stones,  which 
sounded  strangely  loud  at  this  still  hour 
— too  loud  for  safety;  and  the  monk 
whispered  to  the  Pacha  to  dismount  and 
leave  their  horses  with  the  sentinel. 
Mukhtar  obeyed  without  a  word,  and 
the  two  proceeded  through  the  narrow 
streets  on  foot. 

All  the  long  way  the  monk  had  talked 
?68 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

to  him  and  told  him  of  himself  and  his 
own  past,  till  the  Pacha  was  filled  with 
supernatural  awe  of  this  strange  being, 
and  gave  himself  unto  him  entirely. 

When  they  reached  the  Albanian's 
house,  the  monk  drew  from  his  breast  a 
key,  and  opening  the  door,  they  both 
silently  entered.  A  light  burned  in  the 
corridor  and  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase. 
The  monk  pointed  to  something.  The 
Pacha  looked,  and  saw  a  pair  of  yellow 
morocco  boots  embroidered  round  the 
top  in  silver. 

Perhaps  all  along  he  had  hoped  to  be 
mistaken;  he  must  have  hoped.  The 
monk,  looking  at  him,  saw  how  he  shut 
his  eyes  and  leant  for  an  instant  against 
the  wall.  "Your  wife's  boots,"  he  said 
calmly;  "follow  me,"  and  he  began  to 
mount  the  stairs. 

The  Pacha  followed,  but  his  step  was 
slow,  and  his  proud  head  drooped  as  it 
had  never  done  before.  He  had  robbed 
others  of  their  honour,  and  thought 
nothing  of  it.  He  had  taken  young  girls 
from  their  parents,  wives  from  their 
269 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

husbands  —  now  his  own  turn  had 
come. 

They  entered  the  first  room  and  saw 
in  the  pale  light  which  glimmered 
through  the  lattices  the  burnt  out 
candles  and  the  drooping  garlands  of 
faded  flowers.  In  the  second  room  a 
lantern  burned,  and  here  the  monk 
stopped  and  pointed  to  an  embroidered 
cap  and  jacket  which  lay  on  the  divan 
beside  a  spangled  veil,  "She  came," 
he  said,  "in  the  dress  of  a  Bosnian 
peasant." 

The  door  to  the  third  room  was  closed. 
The  monk  stopped  and  knocked  once, 
twice,  three  times.  Then  a  step  was 
heard  inside,  some  one  drew  back  the 
bolt,  and  retreated.  The  monk  opened 
the  door,  and  the  next  instant  he  and  the 
Pacha  were  in  the  room.  A  red  glass 
lantern  hung  from  the  ceiling  in  which 
a  light  still  flickered,  and  through  the 
lattice  which  hung  out  over  the  cataract 
came  the  first  glow  of  morning. 

On  the  edge  of  the  divan  in  a  green 
Turkish  caftan  sat  Abul  Abbas  only 
270 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

half  awake,  and  behind  him,  in  her 
white  Bosnian  dress,  lay  Feridah,  still 
asleep.  The  coffee  cups  and  the  bon- 
bons still  stood  on  the  little  table,  and 
around  the  walls  hung  the  burnt  out 
candles  and  the  faded  flowers. 

"Dog,"  cried  the  Pacha,  "false  Mos- 
lem, Christian  renegade!  Your  life 
shall  be  the  price  of  my  honour ! ' ' 

The  loud  words  roused  the  Albanian 
fully;  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  looked 
about  him  for  a  weapon,  but  in  vain. 
At  the  same  instant  Feridah  awoke  and 
sat  up  among  the  cushions,  with  a  cry 
of  terror. 

The  Pacha  half  drew  his  sword,  and 
then,  convinced  that  the  Albanian  was 
unarmed,  let  it  fall  back  in  its  sheath 
and,  turning  to  the  monk,  asked  for  a 
pistol.  The  monk  drew  one  from  his 
belt,  cocked  it,  and  levelled  it  straight  at 
the  Pacha.  Mukhtar,  surprised,  stepped 
back  towards  the  window,  and  once 
more  drew  his  sword,  and  the  Albanian, 
with  the  generous  impulse  of  his  nature, 
started  forward  as  if  to  interfere. 
271 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

"Stand  aside  Abul  Abbas,"  cried  the 
monk,  "this  hour  is  mine." 

The  Albanian  knew  the  voice,  but 
not  the  tone.  Could  it  be  that  the  lips 
which  had  addressed  him  only  as  Bey 
Effendi,  could  utter  such  an  imperious 
command  ? 

But  he  obeyed,  for  after  all  he  was 
unarmed,  and  the  Pacha  had  his  sword. 
He  sat  down  again  on  the  divan,  and 
Feridah  in  silent  terror  crept  close  be- 
hind him,  and  clasped  her  arms  around 
his  neck,  and  thus  they  both  watched  the 
scene.  The  strange  monk  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  Pacha,  and  his  gaze  seem- 
ed to  charm  him  as  a  snake  charms  a  bird. 

"Mukhtar  Pacha,"  he  said,  "you  do 
not  know  me,  but  I  will  tell  you  who 
I  am."  Holding  the  pistol  always  lev- 
elled at  the  Pacha's  breast,  with  his  left 
hand  he  tore  off  his  false  hair  and  beard, 
and  threw  them  on  the  floor.  "I  am  a 
Greek,  Leonidas,  the  son  of  the  inn- 
keeper of  Megara,  whom  you  had  bow- 
strung  in  my  presence,  then  a  child.  I 
am  the  brother  of  lanthe!" 
272 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

Here  the  Pacha  gasped  for  breath,  and 
leant  back  against  the  window, 

"You  sold  me  as  a  slave  and  as  a 
slave  I  have  lived,  lived  with  one  purpose, 
vengeance  on  you  who  took  my  liberty, 
my  father's  life,  my  sister's  honour.  I 
have  tracked  you,  learned  your  secrets, 
waited  for  the  time  when  I  could  pay 
you  back  in  your  own  coin — death  and 
dishonour. 

"Mukhtar  Pacha,  my  hour  has  come 
at  last.  You  have  robbed  others  of  their 
honour  without  remorse ;  now  you  know 
what  it  is  to  lose  your  own.  Look  at 
your  wife  and  feel  what  you  have  made 
others  suffer." 

Mukhtar's  eyes  turned  for  a  moment 
to  Feridah,  the  woman  whom  he  loved, 
Peridah  with  her  arms  around  her  lover's 
neck.  Then,  as  if  he  could  not  bear  the 
sight,  he  looked  once  more  straight  at  the 
Greek,  and  again  seemed  to  submit  en- 
tirely to  his  strange,  fatal  fascination. 

"Mukhtar  Pacha,"  Leonidas  went  on, 
"I  have  thrown  your  wife  into  my  mas- 
ter's arms  for  my  own  vengeance.  I 
i8  273 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

alone  have  wrought  your  dishonour. 
Now,  one  thing  more,  and  then  my 
debt  is  paid — Death !  I  regret  only  that 
it  must  be  so  short." 

His  eye  glanced  along  the  polished 
barrel  of  the  pistol,  taking  a  cool  and 
steady  aim.  Then  he  paused  as  if  to 
enjoy  to  the  full  the  moment  for  which 
he  had  waited  and  worked  so  long. 

In  that  moment  vengeance  was  taken 
out  of  his  hands.  The  Pacha,  with  an 
involuntary  movement,  for  he  was  brave 
and  had  faced  death  a  hundred  times, 
fell  back  against  the  lattice.  The  wood 
was  old  and  rotted  by  the  constant  spray 
which  dashed  against  it;  for  a  moment 
it  sustained  his  weight,  and  then  gave 
way.  Mukhtar  fell  backwards  out  of 
the  window,  over  the  city  wall,  down 
into  the  cataract ! 

Leonidas  rushed  to  the  window  and 
leant  out.  The  sun  was  rising,  and  the 
whole  valley  flushed  with  a  rosy  light. 
The  Verbas,  as  ever,  thundered  over  the 
precipice  and  dashed  its  spray  like 
pearls  high  in  the  air;  but  nothing, 
274 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

nothing  more  was  to  be  seen.  Mukhtar 
Pacha  had  escaped  all  earthly  vengeance, 
and  fallen  into  the  hands  of  God. 

The  Greek  turned  back  again  and  saw 
Peridah  overcome  by  emotion  weeping  in 
Abul  Abbas 's  arms.  Quickly  he  tore 
off  his  monk's  gown,  and  casting  it  aside 
threw  himself  on  his  knees  beside  the 
divan,  and,  seizing  his  master's  hand, 
covered  it  with  kisses. 

"Bey  Effendi,"  he  said,  "you  have 
helped  me  to  my  revenge!" 


The  drama  was  over;  the  avenger  had 
played  his  part,  and  once  more  he  was 
the  good  servant  of  his  master.  Half 
an  hour  later  he  conducted  through  the 
streets  a  Bosnian  woman,  who  knocked 
and  was  admitted  at  the  harem  en- 
trance of  the  Governor's  house.  Re- 
turning he  roiised  the  cook  and  scullion, 
and  gave  orders  for  his  master's  break- 
fast ;  mounted  the  stairs  and  took  down 
the  candle  ends  and  flowers,  and  threw 
275 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

them  out  of  the  window  after  the  Pacha, 
with  his  monk's  gown,  and  the  rem- 
nants of  the  broken  lattice. 

The  sun  was  up,  and  nothing  remained 
of  last  night's  love  scene,  or  the  dawn's 
catastrophe.  No  one  knew  of  Mukh- 
tar's  visit ;  and  Leonidas,  his  master,  and 
everything  in  the  house  appeared  the 
same  as  always. 

The  Pacha  was  of  course  missed  by 
his  people  in  the  morning,  and  the 
strange  tale  told  by  his  servants  of  the 
unknown  monk,  who  had  come  at  mid- 
night, and  with  whom  he  had  gone  away 
alone,  furnished  no  clue,  but  only  added 
to  the  mystery.  There  was  no  one  to  take 
command,  and  after  some  confusion,  it 
was  decided  that  his  attendants  should 
remain  where  they  were,  two  only  being 
sent  to  carry  the  news  to  Jaice. 

At  noon  some  monks  who  were  fish- 
ing in  the  river  just  below  their  monas- 
tery saw  a  corpse  floating  down  the 
stream.  With  rods  and  poles  they 
managed  to  pull  it  ashore  and  discovered, 
instead  of  that  of  some  unknown  peas- 
276 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

ant,  the  body  of  the  Governor  of  Bosnia. 
Not  knowing  what  to  do,  they  carried 
it  to  the  monastery,  where  the  abbot 
ordered  it  laid  in  the  entrance  hall,  and 
sent  two  messengers  to  bear  the  news  to 
the  town.  Their  way,  though  steep,  was 
short,  and  they  and  those  who  came 
to  look  for  him  met  in  front  of  what 
had  been  yesterday  the  Governor's 
residence. 

Sic  transit  gloria  mundi! 

The  Pacha's  death  was  a  mystery 
which  none  could  fathom.  The  news 
spread  rapidly  through  the  town,  and 
the  citizens  began  to  assemble  in 
the  principal  street.  The  story  of  the 
strange  monk  who  had  decoyed  the 
Pacha  away  in  the  night  was  discredited 
by  many,  and  the  one  fact  remained 
that  his  body  had  been  found  floating 
in  the  river. 

Confusion,  threatening  to  break  into 
disorder,  reigned  and  again  there  seemed 
no  one  to  take  command.  But  just  at 
the  right  moment,  Abul  Abbas  Bey, 
followed  by  his  servant  and  acting 
277 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

entirely  under  his  direction,  appeared 
upon  the  scene.  He  was  arrayed  in  his 
most  gorgeous  Albanian  costume,  with 
a  splendour  of  gold,  sables,  and  jewels, 
which  dazzled  and  impressed  the  crowd. 
They  all  knew  he  was  a  Prince,  and  in 
the  Orient,  the  hour  belongs  to  him  who 
knows  how  to  seize  and  use  it. 

In  a  short  speech,  in  which  he  had  been 
carefully  instructed  by  Leonidas,  he  ex- 
plained to  the  citizens  that  he  was 
the  adopted  brother  of  the  Sultan,  and 
had  been  sent  to  Bosnia  to  assist  the 
Governor  in  council  and  in  arms;  and 
that  now,  owing  to  the  sudden  and 
mysterious  death  of  the  Pacha,  it  be- 
came his  duty  to  take  command  of  the 
affairs  of  state,  and  to  fill  the  vacant 
place  until  such  time  as  the  pleasure  of 
the  Sultan  could  be  known.  Where- 
upon, as  no  one  took  it  upon  himself  to 
raise  a  dissenting  voice,  the  matter  was 
considered  settled,  and  the  Albanian 
Prince,  entering  the  house  and  the  audi- 
ence chamber,  took  the  Pacha's  empty 
seat  on  the  divan. 

278 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

The  secretaries  and  other  officials 
were  called.  Abul  Abbas  dictated  the 
dispatches  to  the  Sultan,  attended  to 
some  other  small  official  matters,  and 
then  laying  the  responsibility  of  the 
widow  and  her  household  upon  Achmet's 
shoulders,  and  warning  him  that  he 
would  answer  for  them  with  his  head, 
he  returned  to  his  own  house. 

In  the  afternoon,  the  body  of  the 
Pacha  Was  carried  in  solemn  procession 
from  the  monastery  to  his  late  residence. 
The  next  day  the  funeral  took  place 
with  all  the  pomp  and  ceremony  which 
could  be  managed  in  the  little  Bosnian 
town,  and  Abul  Abbas  Bey,  the  new 
Governor,  ad  interim,  walked  as  chief 
mourner  in  the  funeral  train. 

The  next  day  the  official  inquiry  into 
the  death  of  the  Pacha  was  begun,  Abul 
Abbas  conducting  the  investigation  (al- 
ways under  the  guidance  of  Leonidas). 
There  were  four  witnesses,  the  Pacha's 
servant  and  two  guards  who  had  seen 
him  leave  his  hunting  quarters  with  the 
monk,  and  the  sentinel  who  had  admit- , 
279 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

ted  him,  still  attended  by  the  same 
strange  companion,  into  the  town  of 
Jaice. 

The  Pacha's  body  had  borne  no  mark 
of  any  weapon,  but  was  bruised  and 
battered  from  being  knocked  against 
the  rocks,  and  it  seemed  probable  that 
he  had  fallen  from  the  city  wall  into  the 
cataract.  No  one  could  be  found  who 
had  ever  seen  or  heard  of  the  strange 
monk  before.  His  gown  was  found 
floating  down  the  river,  but  he  was  not 
in  it,  and  there  all  evidence  and  testi- 
mony ended.  Murder  will  come  to 
light,  but  Mukhtar  Pacha  had  not  been 
murdered,  but  simply  overtaken  by 
the  vengeance  of  Heaven  and  his  death 
remained  a  mystery. 

There  was  but  little  mourning  in  the 
Pacha's  household.  Peridah,  after  the 
first  horror  of  the  shock,  found  herself 
more  happy  than  she  had  ever  hoped 
to  be  at  being  thus  liberated  from  a 
chain  which  she  had  found  so  heavy. 
And  the  slaves,  poor  flowers,  plucked 
from  their  own  lands  by  the  ruthless 
280 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

hand  of  Mukhtar,  began  to  dream  once 
more  of  home  and  Hberty. 

Peridah  had  told  her  nurse  all  that 
had  happened,  but  the  good  woman  was 
not  merely  discreet,  she  could  speak  no 
language  but  Persian,  and  thus  for  two 
good  reasons  the  secret  went  no  farther. 
Achmet  was  left  in  entire  ignorance  of 
what  had  occurred,  and  devoted  himself 
to  the  interests  of  Abul  Abbas  and 
Leonidas,  which  he  now  believed  to 
be  his  own. 

The  forty  days  of  mourning  which 
Peridah  was  obliged  to  observe  pre- 
vented her  leaving  the  house  so  that  it 
was  impossible  for  her  to  meet  her  lover 
in  the  kiosk,  but  every  day  Achmet 
carried  back  and  forth  the  love  letters 
which  they  wrote  each  other. 

Abul  Abbas  had  written  a  private 
letter  to  the  Sultan,  in  which  he  had 
told  him  the  whole  story  of  his  amours, 
confessed  that  he  had  broken  the  law 
of  Islam,  and  begged  his  imperial  foster 
brother  to  consent  to  his  marriage  with 
Peridah.  With  impatience  he  awaited 
281 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

the  Sultan's  answer,  but  the  way  from 
Jaice  to  Constantinople  was  long  and 
dif&cult,  and  it  was  not  till  late  Sep- 
tember, four  weeks  after  the  death  of 
Mukhtar,  that  the  messenger  returned. 
But  when  he  came  at  last,  the  hopes  of 
the  Albanian  were  more  than  fulfilled. 
The  Sultan  not  only  consented  to  his 
marriage  with  the  widow  of  Mukhtar 
Pacha,  but  appointed  him  his  successor 
as  Governor  of  Bosnia.  It  seemed  one 
of  those  rare  turns  in  life  when  there  is 
nothing  more  to  be  desired. 

With  the  messenger  returned  the 
oldest  son  of  Mukhtar  to  arrange  and 
settle  up  his  father's  temporal  affairs. 
The  Pacha  having  died  without  a  will, 
his  property  was  distributed  according 
to  the  Turkish  law,  which  gives  one 
eighth  to  the  widow,  and  of  the  re- 
mainder, two  portions  to  each  son,  one 
to  each  daughter. 

The  young  man  proposed  to  Feridah 
to  take  everything  then  in  Bosnia,  in- 
cluding all  the  slaves.  This  proposi- 
tion she  accepted  gladly,  for  it  was  her 
282 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

desire  to  restore  to  liberty  the  Greek 
and  Albanian  girls  who  had  composed 
the  harem  of  her  late  Lord.  They 
were  all  Christians,  and  as  such  Leoni- 
das,  without  whose  advice  nothing  was 
any  longer  undertaken,  was  admitted 
to  their  presence  to  assist  them  in  decid- 
ing about  their  fate.  Among  them  he 
found  one  whom  he  had  known  in  child- 
hood, at  home  in  Megara,  and  as  she 
was  willing  to  link  her  life  with  his,  he 
asked  and  received  her  from  her  mis- 
tress, and  their  marriage  was  celebrated 
at  the  Church  of  the  Monastery  in  the 
valley.  Of  the  others,  such  as  wished 
it  were  returned,  as  the  occasion  offered, 
to  their  homes,  and  the  others,  who  had 
grown  fond  of  their  captivity,  remained. 
Every  one  found  it  natural  and  right 
that  Abul  Abbas  Bey  should  marry 
Peridah  Hanoum.  The  wedding  was 
accordingly  fixed  to  take  place  three 
weeks  later.  In  the  meantime,  as  Jaice 
was  only  the  summer  residence  of  the 
Governor,  and  it  began  to  grow  chilly 
in  the  mountains,  the  whole  party 
283 


The  Heart  of  Bosnia 

removed  to  the  larger  and  more  commod- 
ious town  of  Sarajevo,  the  real  capital 
of  Bosnia.  And  there,  on  the  fourteenth 
day  of  October,  was  celebrated  with  all 
the  splendour,  so  dear  to  the  Oriental 
heart,  the  marriage  of  Abul  Abbas  and 
Feridah. 

And  Leonidas?  The  vengeance  for 
which  he  had  lived  and  worked  and 
waited  was  now  accomplished,  and  he 
was  satisfied.  Abul  Abbas  had  given 
him  his  liberty,  and  Peridah  had  pre- 
sented him  his  Greek  wife.  But  he 
thought  no  more  of  Megara,  and  cast  in 
his  lot  for  ever  with  that  of  the  Albanian, 
being  wise  enough  to  see  that  there  are 
few  positions  better  than  to  be  the  serv- 
ant of  an  obedient  and  powerfiil  master. 
His  influence  was  indeed  absolute  with 
Abul  Abbas,  who  was  a  soldier,  but  not 
a  statesman,  and  until  the  return  of  the 
latter  to  Constantinople  in  1826,  after 
the  overthrow  and  annihilation  of  the 
Janissaries,  Leonidas  the  Greek  was  the 
real  Governor  of  Bosnia. 

284 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 


285 


THE  SWEET  WATERS  OP  ASIA 
A  Modem  Turkish  Tale 

IT  was  a  glorious  May  day  on  the  Bos- 
phorus.  The  water  glittered  in 
the  sunlight,  pale  blue  and  silver,  stirred 
by  the  wheels  of  steamboats  and  the 
countless  oars  of  innumerable  caiques 
into  dazzling  and  endless  reflections 
like  a  pavement  of  restless  jewels. 

Pera  and  its  endless  suburbs  spread 
along  the  European  shore,  its  white 
palaces  bathing  their  terraces  in  the 
shining  water,  its  gardens  climbing  the 
hills  behind,  and  ending  its  long  vista 
with  the  grey  and  frowning  towers  of 
Roumeli  Hissar.  And  on  the  Asiatic 
shore — oh !  scene  of  enchantment,  which 
no  pen  can  describe! — the  Anatolian 
hills,  pink  and  purple  and  yellow  with 
their  glory  of  flowers ;  the  country  houses 
287 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

laden  with  wisteria,  the  orchards  in 
blossom,  and  the  clusters  of  deep  pink 
Judas  trees;  the  picturesque  villages, 
and  the  summer  palaces  of  Beys  and 
Pachas  embowered  in  gardens  and  nest- 
ling close  to  the  water's  edge,  and  all 
ending  just  as  on  the  other  side  with 
the  old  Castle  of  Anatoli  Hissar.  And 
beyond,  the  Black  Sea. 

Close  beside  the  village  of  Tchingelt- 
chin  stood  the  country  house  of  Ezzid 
Pacha :  in  front  a  garden,  then  the  Salam- 
lik,  and  then,  connected  by  a  covered 
passage  and  surrounded  by  its  high- 
walled  garden,  the  real  palace — the 
harem. 

Ezzid  Pacha  was  old  and  belonged 
to  the  conservative  party,  but  his  only 
son  leaned  toward  the  new  ideas  and, 
being  in  the  Diplomatic  Corps,  had  been 
away  long  years  from  home,  and  was 
now  Ambassador  in  Rome,  Ezzid 
Pacha's  three  daughters  had  long  since 
married,  and  had  gone  with  their  hus- 
bands to  different  parts  of  the  Turkish 
Empire,  and  the  only  child  of  his  race, 
288 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

whom  he  and  his  wife,  Adilah  Hanoum, 
still  guarded  with  them,  was  their  son's 
daughter,  the  little  Mihri  Hanoum.  The 
Pacha  loved  a  large  household  in  the 
old  style,  and  there  were  many  slaves 
in  the  harem,  besides  two  widows, 
poor  cousins,  for  whom  he  provided  and 
who  served  as  maids  of  honour  for  Adilah 
Hanoum. 

The  only  addition  to  the  household 
whom  he  did  not  like  was  the  French 
governess,  whom  Rechad  ^ey,  his  son, 
had  sent,  four  years  before,  to  educate 
his  daughter.  Her  presence,  Ezzid  Pacha 
resented  unceasingly,  and  sought  to 
put  difficulties  in  her  way  by  obliging 
her  to  conform  to  all  Turkish  rules. 
Never  was  she  allowed  to  leave  the 
house,  except  like  a  Turkish  woman  in 
yashmak  and  ferejeh. 

But  the  time  of  deliverance  was  at 
hand,  for  Mihri  had  reached  her  six- 
teenth year,  and  her  marriage  was  the 
next  event  on  the  tapis.  Like  many 
Turkish  girls,  she  had  been  betrothed 
from  infancy  to  the  grandson  of  a  friend 
19  289 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

of  Ezzid  Pacha's  (another  Pacha,  rich 
and  influential),  and  the  consumma- 
tion of  the  nuptials  only  waited  the 
return  of  the  young  man  from  Vienna, 
where  he  was  studying  in  one  of  the 
military  schools. 

The  harem  palace  was  a  large 
square  building,  two  stories  high,  with 
a  wing  running  towards  the  hills.  A 
central  hall,  dignified  by  the  usual  im- 
posing Turkish  staircase,  and  sur- 
mounted by  a  dome  of  coloured  glass, 
was  surrounded  on  each  floor  by  a  circle 
of  large  airy  rooms,  furnished  and  deco- 
rated in  Oriental  style.  In  a  room  on 
the  ground  floor,whose  walls  ran  straight 
down  into  the  water,  and  where  one 
could  fish  from  the  window  with  ease, 
Mihri  Hanoum  was  sitting  with  her 
suite,  idle  and  happy,  after  the  manner 
of  their  race. 

The  French  woman  only  was  busy 
with  her  embroidery,  or  moderately  busy, 
for  she  turned  constantly  and  looked 
through  the  window  lattice,  as  if  always 
expecting  something  which  never  came. 
290 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

She  was  a  thin  brown  woman  of  forty 
perhaps,  who  had  been  pretty,  and 
looked  as  if  she  might  have  had  a  history. 

On  the  floor  sat  Mihri's  nurse,  a  negress 
of  middle  age  named  Hosnah,  whose 
black  eyes  and  white  teeth  shone  with 
smiles  of  constant  good  humour,  and 
who  was  dressed  in  a  combination  of  the 
brightest  colours,  and  loaded  with  gaudy 
trinkets  and  earrings  and  bracelets  of 
massive  gold.  On  the  crimson  divan  sat 
Mihri  herself,  one  foot  hanging  over  the 
edge  with  her  gold-embroidered  slipper 
half  off,  and  the  other  doubled  under 
her  in  a  true  Oriental  attitude;  and  be- 
side her  a  Circassian  girl  named  Ikbal, 
who  had  been  brought  in  infancy  to  be 
her  companion,  and  from  whom  she  was 
inseparable. 

Mihri  was  the  ideal  of  Turkish  beauty, 
well  rounded,  dimpled,  and  graceful  as  a 
faun.  Her  complexion  was  like  cream 
and  roses,  her  lips  were  full  and  red  as 
a  pomegranate  blossom,  and  her  teeth 
like  pearls.  Her  face  was,  perhaps,  a 
little  round  and  her  nose  a  little  flat,  but 
291 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

both  were  in  accordance  with  her  type. 
Hair  like  black  silk  curled  on  her  fore- 
head and  hung  in  two  thick  plaits 
below  her  waist.  Her  eyebrows  looked 
as  if  they  were  painted  with  Indian  ink, 
and  her  black  lashes  shaded  long,  black, 
velvet  eyes,  such  as  are  found  only  in 
the  Orient.  She  was  dressed  in  a  long 
pelisse  of  crimson  velvet  open  at  the  neck, 
and  embroidered  in  seed  pearls,  bracelets 
of  different  coloured  stones  encircled  her 
arms,  bare  to  the  elbow,  and  around 
her  neck  hung  a  long  string  of  pearls. 

Ikbal  was  a  real  Circassian,  red  and 
white,  with  blue  eyes  and  masses  of 
red-golden  hair,  a  peasant  of  the  mount- 
ains with  the  beauty  of  youth  and 
health;  but  no  one  could  look  at  the 
two  young  girls  and  hesitate  as  to  which 
one  was  the  princess  and  which  the 
slave.  She  was  dressed  in  bright  lilac 
and  wore  gold  bracelets  and  a  long  string 
of  amber  beads.  The  colour  effect  of 
the  whole  group  was  most  brilliant  and 
Oriental, 

The  two  young  girls  were  excited  at 
292 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

something  which  the  negress  had  just 
related,  and  which  she  now  repeated 
with  great  effect. 

"Yes,  I  heard  it  myself.  The  Pacha 
Eff endi  said  to  Adilah  Hanoum,  '  Murad 
Bey  has  returned  from  Vienna.'" 

"Then,"  cried  Ikbal,  "Mihri  will  be 
married  soon.  I  wish  I  could  be  married 
too,  but  I  could  not  leave  you,  Mihri, 
and  I  would  rather  wait  and  see  how 
you  like  being  married,  first." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Mihri,  "what  he  is 
like." 

"Murad  Bey,"  said  Hosnah,— "oh! 
he  is  a  handsome  young  man." 

"  You  do  not  know,  nurse,"  said  Mihri ; 
"you  only  say  so  because  you  think  he 
ought  to  be." 

"Oh,"  said  Ikbal,  "suppose  he  was 
cross-eyed  or  had  a  hook  nose." 

"  Hush,  Ikbal,  how  can  you  say  such 
things!" 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  governess,  "the 
Pacha  will  arrange  that  you  can  see 
him  from  the  window." 

"Grandfather  is  so  strict!"  sighed 
293 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

Mihri.  "How  delightful  it  must  be  in 
Prance  where  one  can  not  only  see,  but 
talk  with,  one's  fianci  I  " 

"Do  not  envy  our  customs,"  said 
Mademoiselle;  "we  have  much  to  suffer 
that  you  are  spared." 

"  And  what? "  asked  Ikbal.  "  If  I  could 
go  to  balls  and  dance  with  young  men 
and  have  them  make  love  to  me,  I  would 
not  care  what  I  had  to  suffer." 

"Ikbal!"  exclaimed  Hosnah,  indig- 
nantly, "  such  words  are  not  fit  for  Mihri 
Hanoum  to  hear.  If  you  say  anything 
more  I  will  tell  the  Hanoum  Effendi. 
You  are  a  disgrace  to  the  harem  of  a 
Pacha." 

But  Ikbal  only  threw  herself  back 
on  the  divan  and  laughed;  nobody  was 
afraid  of  Hosnah 's  threats. 

"I  would  like  to  see  him,"  repeated 
Mihri,  "and  why  not?  I  know  it  is  the 
privilege  of  other  girls." 

"We  must  see  him,"  said  Ikbal,  "and 
we  will." 

Mademoiselle  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow again. 

294 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

"You  will  see  him  on  your  wedding 
night,"  she  said,  "and  after  that,  for 
all  the  rest  of  your  life.  And  you  will 
love  him  because  you  know  no  one  else, 
and  there  can  be  none  before  or  after 
him.  In  Prance  there  are — lovers:  men 
who  seek  young  girls  out  and  love  them 
for  a  while  and  then  leave  them  and 
never  come  back!" 

"Oh  well,"  said  Ikbal,  "if  I  had  a 
lover  at  all,  I  would  take  my  chances." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  Mihri 
asked  her  governess  if  they  were  not 
going  out  that  afternoon. 

"Surely,"  said  Mademoiselle;  "the 
Hanoum  Effendi  wishes  us  to  go  out 
every  afternoon  now  that  we  are  in  the 
country." 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  cried  Ikbal; 
"across  to  Dolma  Batche?" 

"No,"  replied  Mihri,  "we  will  go  to 
the  place  I  love  best,  and  where  we  have 
not  been  since  last  summer, — ^the  Sweet 
Waters  of  Asia." 

An  hour  later  Mihri  Hanoum  and 
her   suite   were   on  their  way   up   the 

295 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

Bosphorus  in  a  caique  with  two  rowers 
and  an  elderly  Armenian  servant,  who 
always  accompanied  them,  seated  in 
the  bow.  Mademoiselle  and  the  nurse 
were  wrapped  in  black  silk  ferejehs, 
but  the  young  girls,  according  to  the 
Turkish  custom,  wore  theirs  bright 
coloured. — Mihri's  pink  and  Ikbal's  blue. 
All  wore  the  yashmak,  which  consists  of 
a  white  gauze  turban  over  an  embroid- 
ered cap,  and  a  veil  beginning  below 
the  eyes, — a  veil  so  transparent  that, 
instead  of  hiding,  it  only  enhances,  the 
beauty  of  the  wearer,  and  thus  fails 
entirely  in  the  purpose  for  which  it  was 
ordained  by  the  Prophet. 

The  caique  was  rowed  swiftly  up  the 
Bosphorus  till  it  reached  that  little 
palace  whose  doors  are  ajl  of  fluted 
green  grass,  and  whose  marble  stair- 
case flows  from  it  like  a  frozen  cascade. 
Here  they  went  more  slowly,  and  the 
young  girls  looked  with  lively  interest 
to  see  if  there  were  any  other  picnickers 
like  themselves,  for  in  May  the  Sweet 
Waters  of  Europe  are  still  the  fashiona- 
296 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

ble  resort,  and  it  was  not  yet  the  season 
for  the  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia. 

The  boat  stopped  at  that  delicious 
lawn,  shaded  with  splendid  trees  and 
ornamented  with  that  exquisite  fount- 
ain, than  which  Turkish  art  has  no  finer 
work  to  show.  The  ladies  went  on 
shore  and  strolled  about  under  the  trees 
a  bit.  But  there  was  no  one  here  ex- 
cept the  man  who  sells  bright-coloured 
cakes  at  a  stall,  a  shepherd  followed  by 
a  flock  of  milk-white  sheep,  and  two  or 
three  idlers  of  the  lower  classes,  so  that 
they  soon  returned  to  the  boat,  and, 
turning  from  the  Bosphorus,  rowed  into 
that  winding  stream,  the  Sweet  Waters 
of  Asia. 

The  place  seemed  deserted.  The 
caique  glided  between  the  banks  luxu- 
riant and  wild  with  tangled  green.  Over- 
head the  willows  leaned,  and  in  many 
places  met,  so  that  one  caught  only 
glimmerings  of  the  sky  between,  and  the 
light  itself  was  green.  Mihri  and  Ikbal 
chattered  gaily,  but  suddenly  Made- 
moiselle held  up  a  warning  finger,  and 
297 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

another  caique  came  swiftly  up  behind 
them,  and,  suddenly  slackening  its  speed, 
floated  along  side  by  side  with  theirs. 

In  it,  beside  the  rowers,  sat  two  young 
Turkish  officers,  resplendent  in  their 
uniforms  of  black  and  gold,  to  which  a 
dash  of  colour  was  added  by  their  red 
fezes.  One  of  them  was  pale  and  insig- 
nificant, the  sort  of  man  one  does  not 
look  at  twice;  but  the  other,  on  whom 
the  eyes  of  both  young  girls  were  at  once 
riveted,  was  a  real  Prince  of  the  Arabian 
Nights.  He  was  the  very  embodiment 
of  the  Turkish  ideal  of  masculine  beauty : 
fine,  clear-cut  features,  a  complexion  of 
that  golden  hue  which  one  finds  some- 
times in  Italy,  but  only  at  perfection 
in  the  Orient ;  the  red  blood  flushing  in 
the  cheeks,  and  crimson  on  the  lips; 
jet  black  hair  and  brows,  a  small  lightly 
curled  moustache,  and  eyes  as  long  and 
black  and  bright  as  Mihri's  own. 

The    unknown    returned    the    young 

girl's  gaze.     Caught  by  Ikbal's  bright 

hair,  his  eyes  rested  first  on  her,  but 

only  for  a  moment,  then  turned  to  Mihri 

298 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

and  lingered  on  her  as  if  spellbound. 
Mihri  at  first  returned  his  look  with 
pleasure,  but  it  grew  too  intense  and, 
blushing,  she  looked  down.  Still  feeling 
his  eyes  upon  her,  she  turned  away  and, 
leaning  over  the  side  of  the  caique, 
looked  down  into  the  water.  The 
Armenian  motioned  to  the  rowers  to  go 
faster,  and  the  caique  shot  around  a 
turning  in  the  little  river, 

"What  a  beauty!"  whispered  Ikbal 
in  Mihri's  ear,  "If  Murad  Bey  could 
only  be  like  that." 

Mihri  did  not  answer,  but,  looking  up, 
she  saw  the  strange  caique  again  beside 
them,  and  the  young  officer's  eyes  again 
fastened  upon  her.  And  being  a  woman, 
Mihri  once  more  looked  at  him.  Their 
eyes  rested  on  each  other  for  a  moment, 
and  then  his  caique  shot  ahead  around 
another  turn  in  the  little  river. 

Mihri  was  now  really  excited.  She 
looked  at  her  governess,  but  Made- 
moiselle's back  had  been  turned  to  the 
strangers,  and  as  usual  her  thoughts 
seemed  far  away.  Ikbal  began  to  whis- 
299 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

per  in  Mihri's  ear,  and  the  caique  went 
slowly  up  the  stream,  past  the  place 
where  the  open  air  concerts  are  held, 
with  the  lattice  screen  on  the  other  bank 
behind  which  the  ladies  sit,  and  at  the 
third  turning  they  came  upon  the  strange 
boat  again,  lying  upon  its  oars. 

This  time  the  young  officer  leant  for- 
ward with  a  reckless  eagerness  and 
gazed  at  Mihri  as  if  he  could  not  turn 
his  eyes  away.  And  alas !  in  spite  of  the 
good  bringing  up  of  Hosnah,  Made- 
moiselle, and  Adilah  Hanoum,  Mihri 
looked  at  him  and  smiled. 

But  this  time  Hosnah  caught  the  look, 
and  turning,  saw  to  whom  it  was  di- 
rected. She  hastily  whispered  in  Made- 
moiselle's ear,  and  the  latter  turned 
to  the  rowers  and  uttered  the  single 
word,  "Tchingeltchin,"  in  a  tone  which 
they  did  not  fail  to  understand.  The 
caique  whirled  round  so  swiftly  that 
her  stern  struck  the  bow  of  the  other 
boat,  and  both  rocked  from  the  collision. 
Ikbal  and  Hosnah  screamed,  but  Mihri 
only  turned  and  looked  over  her  shoulder 
300 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

as  she  was  borne  away,  and  the  young 
officer,  with  unheard  of  boldness,  leant 
forward  and  kissed  his  hand  to  her. 

Back  again  through  the  green  wind- 
ings of  the  enchanted  river,  past  the 
velvet  lawn,  the  fountain,  and  the  palace, 
the  caique  floated  once  more  in  the  blue 
and  silver  of  the  Bosphorus.  Hosnah 
scolded  both  the  girls  with  perfect  im- 
partiality till  she  lost  her  breath,  but  no 
one  minded  her  scolding,  and  Made- 
moiselle, whose  disapproval  was  much 
more  serious,  remained  silent  and  pen- 
sive, and  said  nothing.  When  they 
reached  home  again,  they  went  into 
the  garden,  and  Mihri  and  Ikbal  talked 
of  nothing  but  their  adventure  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening.  In  the  springtime 
of  life,  each  little  event  is  magnified, 
and  the  girls  are  the  same  in  the  Orient 
as  in  the  Occident. 

The  next  morning  when  at  ten  o'clock, 
as  usual,  Mihri  Hanoum  went  to  kiss 
the  hand  of  her  grandmother,  followed 
by  her  suite,  it  was  evident  to  them, 
when  they  entered  the  antechamber, 
301 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

by  the  stir  and  flutter  among  the  slaves, 
that  something  unusual  was  going  on. 
With  some  excitement,  therefore,  they 
entered  the  special  salon  and  the  august 
presence  of  Adilah  Hanoum, 

This  salon,  large  and  square,  with 
three  windows  at  one  side,  was  painted 
and  gilded  with  flowers,  birds,  and  a  blue 
sky  in  the  Italian  style.  The  curtains 
and  divans  were  of  yellow  satin  em- 
broidered in  gold ;  a  magnificent  Persian 
rug  covered  the  floor ;  and  mirrors  of  all 
shapes  and  sizes, in  frames  of  gold, silver, 
and  inlaid  woods,  decorated  the  walls; 
at  one  side,  in  a  niche,  a  stream  of  water 
flowed  into  an  alabaster  shell.  In  the 
centre  of  the  room  stood  an  antique 
brass  brazier  on  a  massive  tray,  and 
over  it  hung  one  of  those  glass  chande- 
liers which  are  made  in  Bohemia  for 
the  Oriental  market,  all  red  and  green 
and  gold. 

It  was  a  typical  modem  Turkish 
salon  of  the  highest  class,  a  room  in 
which  the  eye  sought  for  rest,  but  con- 
soled itself  with  glitter  and  colour  in- 
302 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

stead.  It  presented  not  the  real  and 
artistic  splendour  of  the  Orient,  but  the 
afterglow  of  the  modem  East. 

Adilah  Hanoum  was  seated  on  a  divan 
between  her  two  cousins,  Th^m6ne  and 
Edibai  Hanoum.  She  was  a  tall  and  im- 
posing-looking woman,  still  handsome  in 
her  sixtieth  year.  She  wore  a  long  robe 
of  purple  satin,  an  India  scarf  hanging 
over  her  shoulders  (like  the  ladies  in  the 
books  of  beauty)  and  on  her  head  a 
turban  made  out  of  a  white  silk  hand- 
kerchief and  fastened  with  a  diamond 
pin.  The  two  cousins  were  not  particu- 
lar about  their  dress,  and  wore  old  wrap- 
pers of  faded  silk,  though  their  turbans 
were  of  immaculate  white,  and  equally 
immaculate  white  stockings  adorned 
their  feet,  for,  like  many  other  Oriental 
women,  they  loved  to  walk  about  with- 
out their  slippers  in  the  house.  They 
were  both  elderly,  and  Th.6m6ne  took 
snuff  out  of  a  silver  box,  while  Edibai 
always  had  a  cigarette  in  her  mouth. 

Mihri  advanced  and  kissed  her  grand- 
mother's hand,  and  after  her  Made- 
303 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

moiselle,  Hosnah,  and  Ikbal  repeated 
this  act  of  homage. 

"Mihri,"  said  Adilah  Hanoum,  "sit 
beside  me.  I  have  something  to  tell 
you." 

Whereupon  the  two  cousins  arose  and 
moved  several  paces  down  the  divan, 
and  Mihri  and  her  governess  took  their 
places,  while  Ikbal  and  Hosnah  tran- 
quilly seated  themselves  on  the  floor. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  the  Hanoum, 
addressing  the  governess  first,  in  Tur- 
kish, (the  only  language  she  spoke,  and 
which  the  Frenchwoman  had  long  since 
learned) ,"  you  have  been  with  us  now 
four  years,  and  I  take  for  granted  that 
you  have  in  that  time  taught  my  grand- 
daughter everything  which  it  is  necessary 
for  her  to  know." 

"Madame,"  replied  the  governess,  "I 
have  taught  her  all  that  she  desired  to 
learn." 

Adilah  Hanoum  accepted  the  answer 
and  we  may  accept  the  fact  that  Mihri 
was  not  over-educated. 

"Her  education  being  then  finished," 
304 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

pursued  the  Hanoum,  "the  time  for 
her  marriage  has  arrived.  Being  trans- 
ferred to  the  care  of  her  husband,  she 
will  no  longer  need  a  governess ;  but  you 
will  remain  with  us  as  long  as  you  desire, 
and  if  that  be  for  ever." 

"Madame,"  replied  the  Frenchwoman, 
"I  thank  you  for  all  your  kindness,  but 
when  Mihri  Hanoum  is  married,  I  will, 
if  you  permit  me,  return  to  France." 

The  Hanoum  then  turned  to  Mihri. 

"My  child,"  she  said,  "your  be- 
trothed, Murad  Bey,  has  returned  to 
Stamboul.  His  grandfather,  Hafiz  Pacha, 
was  here  yesterday.  .  He  and  Ezzid 
Pacha  have  arranged  everything,  and 
the  marriage  will  take  place  in  June." 

"So  soon!"  cried  Mihri;  "but  dear 
grandmother,  I  do  not  like " 

"My  child,"  said  the  Hanoum,  "you 
will  like  whatever  your  grandparents 
arrange  for  you.     They  know  best. " 

Mihri  took  her  grandmother's  hand 

and   kissed    it.     "I    beg  your   pardon, 

grandmother,"  she  said,  "but  I  have  one 

thing  to  ask,  may  I  not  see  Murad  Bey  ? " 

»°  305 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

"If  it  can  be  conveniently  arranged," 
replied  the  Hanoum,  "but  here  it  is 
difficult,  for  our  windows  do  not  com- 
mand the  entrance  to  the  Salamlik;  but 
we  will  see.  To-day  I  am  going  to 
Stamboul  to  choose  the  stuffs  for  your 
trousseau," 

"May  I  go  with  you?"  asked  Mihri. 

"No,  I  think  it  better  not.  My 
cousins  will  accompany  me,  and  I  shall 
also  take  Hosnah,  since  the  nurse  has 
the  right  to  be  consulted  in  a  matter  of 
such  importance." 

Ikbal  began  to  beg  that  Mihri  and 
herself  might  go  too,  and  Adilah 
Hanoum,  who  had  a  weakness  for  the 
irrepressible  Circassian,  began  to  hesi- 
tate, when  Mihri  herself  cut  the  argu- 
ment short,  saying,  "No,  it  is  better  not. 
We  will  go  instead  to  the  Sweet  Waters 
of  Asia." 

Ikbal  said  no  more,  and  neither  Mad- 
emoiselle nor  Hosnah  thought  of  the 
adventure  of  yesterday,  but  had  Adilah 
Hanoum  only  known  the  reason  of  her 
granddaughter's  docility,  she  would 
306 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

certainly  have  been  taken  to  the  bazaars. 

The  ladies  departed  for  Stamboul,  and 
the  young  girls  amused  themselves  for 
the  morning  in  the  garden,  and  four 
o'clock  saw  them  once  more  in  their 
caique  on  their  way  to  the  Sweet  Waters 
of  Asia.  Mademoiselle  seemed  more  ab- 
sorbed than  ever.  Her  gaze  was  fixed 
with  intensity  on  the  shining  Bosphorus, 
and  the  flowering  Asiatic  hills,  but  she 
saw  nothing  but  the  dim  grey  coast  of 
France.  Mihri  and  Ikbal  were  excited 
with  that  delicious  excitement  of  early 
youth,  blended  of  hope  and  fear.  They 
looked  about  them  on  all  sides  and  had 
not  long  to  wait. 

At  the  very  mouth  of  the  Sweet 
Waters  the  caique  of  yesterday  lay 
rocking  on  the  ripples,  the  boatmen 
resting  on  their  oars.  In  it  was  the 
handsome  young  officer,  but  instead  of 
his  former  companion,  a  good-looking 
young  man  with  fair  hair,  evidently  a 
foreigner,  and  perhaps  a  German  or 
Austrian  officer. 

The  moment  their  caique  approached 
307 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

Mihri  felt  the  black  eyes  fixed  on  her, 
and  she  did  not  resist  the  temptation  of 
returning  the  glance  and  with  a  smile. 
Ikbal,  who  now  felt  that  she  had  some- 
thing to  live  for  also,  looked  at  the  blond, 
and  he  returned  her  look,  and  seemed 
quite  ready  to  meet  her  half-way. 

The  ladies'  boat  moved  slowly  up  the 
stream,  and  the  strangers',  which  had 
evidently  been  waiting  for  them,  fol- 
lowed. The  Sweet  Waters  were  as 
deserted  as  they  had  been  the  day  be- 
fore, and  the  two  boats,  keeping  close 
together,  floated  through  all  the  wind- 
ings of  the  little  river,  and  the  occupants 
of  the  boats  had  its  green  glimmerings 
all  for  themselves.  Mademoiselle  no- 
ticed nothing,  and  though  the  Armenian, 
who  sat  as  usual  in  the  bow,  took  in  the 
situation  very  well,  it  was  not  his  place 
to  interfere.  The  two  young  men  gazed 
at  the  girls  uninterruptedly,  and  they 
(alas!  that  it  must  be  told)  looked  at 
them  over  their  shoulders  every  other 
moment.  It  was  an  ideal  Turkish  love 
scene. 

308 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

High  up  the  stream  they  found  a  bed 
of  violets.  Mihri  had  a  fancy  for  the 
purple  flowers,  so  they  alighted  on  the 
soft  green  bank  among  the  tangled 
ferns,  and  each  of  the  young  girls  picked 
herself  a  great  bunch  of  violets. 

The  men  dared  not  follow,  for  the 
south  bank  on  which  the  violets  grew 
is  the  ladies*  shore,  and  sacred  to  them 
only.  They  remained  instead  in  their 
caique,  and  on  the  backward  route, 
being  in  the  lead,  they  looked  backward 
to  meet  the  smiling  eyes  of  the  girls  that 
were  turned  upon  them. 

When  they  reached  the  mouth  of  the 
Sweet  Waters,  Ezzid  Pacha's  rowers 
shot  ahead.  Mihri  turned  back  for  one 
more  look,  and  yielding  to  a  sudden 
impulse,  threw  her  violets  into  the  water. 
A  ripple  washed  them  to  the  other  boat ; 
the  young  officer  leaned  forward,  picked 
them  up,  and  pressed  them  to  his  lips  and 
to  his  heart. 

When  they  reached  home,  the  harem 
was  in  the  liveliest  state  of  excitement. 
Adilah  Hanoum  and  her  suite  had  re- 
309 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

turned  from  Stamboul,  and  had  brought 
with  them  silks,  muslins,  velvet  and 
gold  embroideries,  the  choice  of  the 
bazaars.  The  slaves  were  all  in  the 
salon  unrolling  and  examining  the  stuffs 
before  putting  them  away.  Twilight 
was  falling,  but  all  the  candles  were  lit 
in  the  bell  glasses  of  the  Bohemian 
chandelier. 

Adilah  Hanoum  was  not  present, 
which  removed  all  restraint,  but  Th6- 
m^ne  Hanoum  sat  in  one  corner  taking 
snuff  and  Edibai  Hanoum  in  another 
telling  her  beads  and  smoking  the  usual 
cigarette;  while  Hosnah  stood  in  the 
midst  of  an  excited  group  relating  the 
adventures  of  the  bazaar.  The  scene 
was  one  to  which  no  feminine  heart 
could  remain  cold.  Mihri  and  Ikbal 
threw  themselves  into  the  situation 
without  reserve.  No  one  asked  them 
about  their  adventures,  and  for  the 
moment,  they  forgot  them  themselves. 

The  next  day  Adilah  Hanoum  was 
very  much  occupied  with  the  arrange- 
ments for  the  trousseau.  Every  one  in 
310 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

the  harem  was  busy  and  Mihri  and 
Ikbal  ran  about  Hke  a  couple  of  will-o' 
the-wisps,  until  Adilah  Hanoum  de- 
clared that  they  were  in  everybody's 
way,  and  ordered  Mademoiselle  to  take 
them  out  of  the  house. 

"Where,  Madame?"  asked  the  gover- 
ness. 

"Any  quiet  place  where  they  will  be 
out  of  mischief.  The  Sweet  Waters  of 
Asia." 

Destiny !  To  the  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 
they  went,  and  Mihri 's  lover  was  already 
waiting  for  her  there.  The  foreigner 
was  with  him  again,  so  that  Ikbal  also 
had  an  occupation. 

But  this  time  they  led  the  way  up 
the  stream,  and  Mihri 's  boat  followed. 
A  better  arrangement,  since  the  Ar- 
menian and  the  rowers  had  their  backs 
towards  the  strangers,  while  Mihri  and 
Ikbal  to  look  at  them  did  not  have  to 
turn  round. 

The  Turkish  officer  held  in  his  hand 
a  single  long-stemmed  red  rose,  such  as 
were  not  yet  in  bloom  in  the  gardens  of 
3" 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

the  Bosphorus,  and  when  the  narrowest 
part  of  the  Sweet  Waters  had  been 
reached,  he  laid  it  gently  on  a  ripple,  and 
it  floated  down  to  Mihri,  who  caught  it 
in  her  left  hand  as  if  it  had  been  a  water 
lily.  She  held  it,  looked  at  it,  but 
dared  not  kiss  it,  and  only  bent  her 
pretty  head  and  inhaled  its  perfume. 

"Mihri,"  said  her  governess,  breaking 
suddenly  from  her  reveries,  "where  did 
you  get  that  rose? " 

"I  found  it  in  the  water,"  answered 
Mihri. 

Mademoiselle  looked  around  uneasily, 
observed  the  other  boat,  and  caught  a 
glance  from  the  Armenian,  which  showed 
her  that  something  was  wrong. 

"We  will  go  home,"  she  said,  "back 
to  Tchingeltchin." 

The  caique  turned  round  and  was 
rowed  slowly  down  the  stream  but  the 
other  caique  followed,  and  when  they 
reached  the  meadow  with  the  fountain 
it  did  not  stop  as  usual  but  still  followed 
at  a  little  distance  down  the  Bosphorus. 
Mihri  and  Ikbal  were  frightened  at  this, 
312 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

and  only  dared  to  look  back  over  their 
shoulders  now  and  then.  Their  boat 
went  on  and  stopped  at  their  own  garden 
stairs,  and  the  other  one  came  on  and 
passed,  and  they  saw  nothing  more,  for 
the  garden  door  was  shut  behind  them. 

But  just  below  was  the  regular  village 
landing  and  here  the  strangers  stopped, 
alighted,  and  entered  a  little  caf6.  The 
host,  an  obsequious  Syrian,  came  for- 
ward and  made  them  welcome.  Coffee 
and  cigarettes  were  quickly  brought  and 
presently  the  young  officer  asked  care- 
lessly, "Whose  is  the  long  white  house 
with  the  two  gardens?" 

"That,  Bey  Effendi,"  replied  the 
Syrian,  "is  the  house  of  Ezzid  Pacha." 

"And  who  are  the  ladies  who  just 
entered  there  from  their  caique?" 

"Ah,"  said  the  Syrian,  who  now  saw 
the  trend  of  these  remarks,  "that  is  the 
Pacha's  granddaughter  and  her  gover- 
ness, and  a  slave  who  is  always  with 
her.  In  summer  we  see  them  every 
day." 

"Your  coffee  is  very  good,"  said  the 
313 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

officer,  and  rising  to  go,  he  tossed  him 
a  piece  of  gold. 

The  next  day  it  rained  so  that  Mihri 
could  not  go  out,  but  owing  to  the  prepa- 
rations, it  was  a  busy  one  in  the  harem. 
In  the  afternoon,  Ezzid  Pacha  sent  for 
his  granddaughter,  and  had  a  long  talk 
with  her,  in  which  he  explained  to  her 
all  the  arrangements  for,  and  conditions 
of,  her  marriage,  a  mark  of  consideration 
by  which  Mihri  was  duly  impressed. 

The  wedding  would  take  place  in  a 
month,  and  Mihri  heard  to  her  great 
relief  that  she  was  not  to  leave  home 
but  would  continue  to  live  with  her 
grandparents.  The  long  unused  wing 
of  the  harem  was  to  be  fitted  up  for 
her  occupation. 

Hafiz  Pacha  and  his  family  lived  in 
Broussa,  and  he  came  only  occasionally 
to  Constantinople,  as  now,  to  meet  his 
son.  Murad  Bey,  however,  was  to  be 
stationed  there,  having  received  a  com- 
mission in  the  Sultan's  guards,  so  that 
this  was  the  best,  in  fact,  the  only  suita- 
ble arrangement. 

314 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

In  the  subject  of  her  dowry,  Mihri 
was  too  young  to  be  interested,  but  she 
thanked  her  grandfather  with  much 
grace  and  sweetness  for  all  he  was  doing 
for  her,  without  troubling  herself  to 
think  what  it  was.  When,  however,  at 
the  end  of  the  conversation,  he  told  her 
that  she  would  be  given  her  mother's 
diamonds,  she  was  indeed  pleased,  and 
kissed  the  Pacha's  hand  with  a  very 
real  and  lively  gratitude. 

Her  destiny  was  now  fixed,  and  she 
accepted  it  with  Oriental  resignation. 
But  at  the  same  time  she  felt  that  she 
had  one  more  month  to  enjoy  herself, 
and  the  next  afternoon  saw  her  once 
more  with  her  suite  on  her  way  to  the 
Sweet  Waters  of  Asia. 

The  day  was  warm  and  bright,  and 
there  were  several  boats  on  the  little 
stream,  and  some  people  strolling  on  the 
banks  among  the  ferns,  but  to  Mihri  the 
place  seemed  empty,  for  her  lover  was 
not  there. 

On  their  return  home,  they  found  the 
harem  again  in  a  state  of  commotion. 

315 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

Hafiz  Pacha  and  Murad  Bey  had  ar- 
rived and  were  with  Ezzid  Pacha  in  the 
Salamlik. 

"Had  you  been  a  Httle  sooner,"  whis- 
pered Themdne  Hanoum  in  Mihri's 
ear,  "you  would  have  seen  him.  He 
and  his  father  landed  in  the  village,  and 
walked  around  the  garden  wall,  so  that 
we  who  were  sitting  in  the  kiosk,  saw 
them  very  well." 

"What  is  he  like?  "  asked  Mihri. 

"Oh,  a  fine  young  man,"  replied 
Th^m^ne,  "but  all  young  men  look 
alike  to  me."  And  she  took  a  pinch 
of  snviff . 

Two  or  three  of  the  slaves  who  had 
seen  him  also  described  him,  much  more 
in  detail,  but  in  their  excitement,  their 
descriptions  differed  so  materially  that 
Mihri  knew  no  more  about  her  fianc^ 
than  she  did  before,  and  as  he  and  his 
father  remained  to  supper  with  Ezzid 
Pacha  there  was  no  possibility  of  seeing 
him  again  that  night. 

The  next  morning  the  workmen,  who 
were  to  fit  up  the  wing,  arrived,  and  for 
316 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

that  and  the  two  succeeding  days,  Adi- 
lah  Hanoum  took  her  granddaughter,  the 
two  cousins,  the  governess,  and  Ikbal 
(from  whom  Mihri  would  never  be  sepa- 
rated) out  to  visit  various  famiHes  of 
relatives,  up  and  down  the  Bosphorus. 

Mihri  liked  visiting  as  a  rule,  but  now 
she  felt  a  strange  impatience  and  a 
desire  to  be  elsewhere,  and  she  longed, 
with  a  longing  that  was  more  than  fancy, 
to  see  her  unknown  lover  once  more. 
At  last,  on  the  fourth  day,  her  desire 
was  fulfilled;  she  went  again  to  the 
Sweet  Waters  and  found  him  awaiting 
her  there. 

There  was,  as  on  the  last  occasion,  a 
number  of  other  people  on  the  water 
and  on  the  banks,  which  made  any 
demonstrations  impossible.  Mihri  and 
her  lover  could  only  look  at  each  other, 
but  as  their  boats  kept  close  together, 
this  they  did  to  their  hearts'  content. 

The  meetings  continued  for  some  days, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  preparations 
for  the   marriage   progressed,   and   the 
wedding  day  approached. 
317 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

The  excitement  of  the  adventure  had 
carried  Mihri  along  so  far,  but  now  her 
joyous  mood  changed  suddenly  to  melan- 
choly, for  now  she  realised  what  she 
had  done.  She  was  in  love  with  one 
man,  and  about  to  be  married  to  another. 
Young  as  she  was,  her  heart  told  her 
what  this  meant,  but  her  love  was  greater 
than  her  fear  of  the  unhappiness  which 
must  follow,  and  she  did  not  try  to  save 
herself.  Every  day  she  still  went  to 
the  Sweet  Waters,  and  every  day  her 
lover  met  her  there. 

Sometimes  he  was  accompanied  by 
the  foreigner,  who  always  flirted  with 
Ikbal,  sometimes  by  the  officer  who  had 
been  with  him  at  first,  and  sometimes 
he  was  alone.  But  always,  he  showed 
that  he  had  come  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  seeing  Mihri,  and  it  was  as  real  a 
love  affair  as  is  possible  in  the  Orient. 
That  it  should  have  been  allowed  to 
proceed  was  the  unusual  element  in  the 
situation. 

Its  continuance  was  owing  to  several 
favouring  circumstances.  Mademoiselle 
318 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

was  distrait  and  took  no  notice.  Ikbal 
was  in  full  sympathy,  Hosnah  was  so 
interested  in  what  was  going  on  at  home 
that  she  very  seldom  accompanied  the 
party;  and  Adilah  Hanoum  was,  of 
course,  in  ignorance  of  the  whole  affair. 

And  so  it  drifted  on.  Almost  every 
afternoon  saw  the  lovers  at  the  Sweet 
Waters  of  Asia ;  Mihri  joyous  and  think- 
ing of  nothing  else  for  the  time,  but, 
on  her  return  home,  losing  all  her  spirits 
and  sinking  into  melancholy  and  silence. 
The  latter  mood  aroused  but  little  com- 
ment, for  the  reason  that  the  other 
inmates  of  the  harem  thought  it  merely 
affected  and  quite  proper  for  a  bride- 
elect,  and  besides  she  was  most  of  the 
time,  with  her  own  attendants  and  apart 
from  the  rest. 

What  preyed  most  upon  her  mind  was 
the  thought  of  what  would  happen  after 
her  marriage.  Would  she  still  go  to 
the  Sweet  Waters  and  still  meet  him 
there,  and  if  so,  what  then?  She  lay 
awake  at  night  and  thought  of  this  as 
she  had  never  thought  of  anything  be- 
319 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

fore,  and  by  day  she  discussed  it  with 
Ikbal,  but  it  was  a  question  to  which 
they  could  find  no  answer. 

The  month  of  May  was  passing.  The 
weather  grew  warmer  and  more  brilliant 
every  day,  and  the  roses  bloomed  in  the 
gardens  of  the  Bosphorus.  The  prepa- 
rations were  almost  completed,  and  the 
wedding  day  drew  near.  A  few  more 
trips  to  the  Sweet  Waters,  a  few  more 
love  scenes,  and  already  it  was  June.  A 
brilliant  crescent  glimmered  in  the  east 
and  Mihri  looked  at  it,  and  knew  that 
when  it  was  full  she  would  be  a  bride. 

Every  evening,  after  the  workmen  had 
left,  the  ladies  and  slaves  went  in  with 
candles  in  bell  glasses  to  inspect  the 
progress  in  the  bridal  apartments.  The 
first  room  was  decorated  in  white  and 
gold  with  panels  in  crimson  brocade. 
The  furniture,  which  had  been  ordered 
in  Vienna,  had  not  yet  arrived,  but 
already  there  hung  from  the  ceiling  a 
crystal  chandelier. 

The  bedroom,  which  came  next,  was 
Oriental,  papered  with  a  bright  Chinese 
320 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

paper  and  furnished  with  yellow  satin 
curtains  and  divans.  A  large,  gilded, 
Turkish  bed  with  a  square  canopy  stood 
at  one  side,  but  the  curtains  and  coverlet 
had  not  yet  come  home.  Beyond  were 
two  small  rooms,  which  were  fitted  up 
as  dressing-rooms,  half  European,  half 
Oriental  in  style.  The  young  people 
were  to  take  their  meals  with  the  family, 
so  that  there  was  no  occasion  for  a  din- 
ing-room and  the  lower  floor  of  the 
wing  had  been  left  undisturbed. 

All  this  was  for  her  and  for  her  hus- 
band, but  Mihri  observed  it  all  with 
but  a  languid  interest.  This  was  her 
destiny,  but  she  hardly  wondered  any 
longer  what  Murad  Bey  was  like.  She 
only  felt  that  he  was  not  the  one  she 
loved. 

A  few  days  more  and  the  furniture 
arrived  from  Vienna,  gilded  tables  and 
chairs  and  sofas  in  crimson,  brocade, 
crimson  curtains,  and  two  beautiful 
mirrors  in  gold  frames.  Everything 
was  rich,  florid,  baroque  and  dear  to 
the  Oriental  eye  and  heart. 

ai  321 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

Then  two  inlaid  Damascus  tables  and 
a  magnificent  inlaid  chest  were  placed 
in  the  yellow  room,  and  the  hangings 
for  the  bed,  white  satin  embroidered 
in  gold.  Last  of  all  there  was  hung 
from  the  ceiling  a  wonderful  old  silver 
lamp,  from  which  the  twinkling  lights 
looked  out  through  pink  glass,  filling 
with  a  rose-coloured  twilight  the  bridal 
chamber.  Persian  rugs  were  laid  on 
all  the  floors,  perfumes  were  sprinkled 
about,  and  all  was  furnished  and  ready. 

Mihri  went  for  the  last  time  to  the 
Sweet  Waters  of  Asia.  Her  lover  was 
waiting  for  her  and  his  look  was  radiant. 
But  Mihri  was  so  sad  that  she  could 
hardly  smile.  He  could  know  nothing 
of  her  approaching  marriage,  or  that 
this  meeting  was  their  last;  but  she, 
alas!  could  think  of  nothing  else,  and 
when  her  eyes  met  his,  they  filled  with 
tears.  One  last  look  at  parting,  a  long 
farewell  to  love. 

Then  she  was  rowed  back  along 
the  Bosphorus,  and  when  she  reached 
homei  she  shut  herself  up  alone  with 
322 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

Ikbal,  and  gave  way  to  a  passion  of 
tears.  It  was  over ;  the  rose  had  faded 
and  dropped  its  petals,  and  left  only  the 
thorn  in  her  hand.  Mademoiselle  was 
wrong,  one  could  be  just  as  happy  and 
just  as  unhappy  in  Turkey  as  in  Prance. 

Why  had  they  ever  met?  Why  had 
she  gone  to  the  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia? 
The  next  day  was  the  one  before  the 
wedding.  In  the  evening  the  contract 
was  to  be  signed;  and  on  this  occasion 
there  is  always  what  one  would  call  a 
stag  party  in  the  Salamlik,  including 
the  male  relatives  and  friends  of  both 
sides. 

In  the  harem,  only  the  ladies  re- 
lated to  the  family  and  a  few  of  Adilah 
Hanoum's  old  friends  were  assembled. 

When  they  had  all  arrived  and  were 
seated  around  the  grand  salon,  Mihri 
was  led  in  by  two  young  girls  (as  is  the 
invariable  custom  in  the  East)  whom 
we  would  call  the  bridesmaids.  She 
wore  a  dress  of  white  Servian  muslin, 
striped  with  pink  and  gold,  and  her 
beautiful  hair  fell  unadorned  in  its  two 
323 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

long  plaits  for  the  last  time.  To-mor- 
row she  would  wear  the  bridal  turban. 

Custom  requires  the  Oriental  bride 
to  walk  with  feigned  reluctance  and  to  be 
dragged  along  by  the  young  girls  who 
conduct  her.  For  Mihri,  this  required 
no  effort;  her  reluctance,  alas!  was  real. 
She  was  led  first  to  her  grandmother, 
before  whom  she  knelt  to  receive  her 
bridal  gift.  Adilah  Hanoum  gave  her 
an  inlaid  Mecca  casket  in  which,  on 
purple  velvet,  glittered  the  diamond 
necklace  and  tiara  which  had  been  her 
mother's.  Mihri  received  the  jewels  in 
silence,  kissed  both  her  grandmother's 
hands,  and  rising  went  on  round  the 
circle,  receiving  from  each  one  her  bridal 
gift,  and  kissing  all  the  ladies'  hands. 

The  gifts  varied:  some  were  jewels, 
some  gold  and  silver,  some  scarfs  and 
shawls,  and  some  flacons  of  perfume. 
Th^m^ne  and  Edibai  Hanoum,  being 
poor  dependents,  had  nothing  to  give; 
but,  that  they  might  not  be  left  out,  one 
had  been  given  the  diamond  bracelets, 
and  the  other  the  earrings  of  Mihri 's 
324 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

mother,  and  they  now  presented  them 
with  imperturbable  dignity  and  grace. 
Hosnah  and  Ikbal,  who  followed  Mihri, 
took  the  presents  from  her,  and  carried 
them  into  the  next  room,  where  they 
were  locked  up  in  two  glass  cabinets. 

When  the  presentations  were  over, 
Mihri  took  her  place  between  the  brides- 
maids on  the  divan,  little  tables  were 
brought  in  by  the  slaves,  and  a  supper 
in  many  courses  was  served.  After- 
wards the  ladies  sat  smoking  cigarettes 
for  a  while,  and  the  party  was  an  early 
one,  that  they  might  all  be  fresh  for  the 
morrow.  By  ten  o'clock,  they  had  all 
kissed  the  bride  and  had  said  good-night. 

The  next  day  was  cloudless,  beautiful, 
and  sweet  with  the  scent  of  roses.  All 
the  morning  the  entire  household  of 
Ezzid  Pacha  was  in  a  state  of  intense 
excitement.  Arches  of  coloured  lan- 
terns and  glittering  balls  were  erected  at 
the  entrance  of  the  two  gardens,  and  gar- 
lands of  flowers  were  hung  over  the  doors. 
Inside,  the  choicest  rugs  and  cushions 
were  placed  about;  all  the  chandeliers 
325 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

filled  with  wax  candles ;  perfumes  sprin- 
kled, and  vases  and  bowls  of  roses  scat- 
tered everywhere. 

At  three  o'clock,  Mihri  Hanoum  re- 
tired to  her  room  to  be  dressed,  and  at 
five  the  company  began  to  arrive,  a 
crowd  of  caiques  succeeding  each  other 
in  line  at  the  entrances  to  the  Salamlik 
and  the  harem,  and  a  few  carriages  also 
driving  up  on  the  land  side. 

Ezzid  Pacha,  Hafiz  Pacha,  and  the 
bridegroom,  Murad  Bey,  received  their 
guests  in  the  salon  of  the  Salamlik,  and 
they  were  arranged  according  to  rela- 
tionship and  rank  on  the  divans  where 
they  were  to  sit  talking  and  smoking 
cigarettes  for  hours  with  Oriental  pa- 
tience and  serenity. 

In  the  harem,  the  scene  was  much 
more  brilliant.  The  slaves  all  had 
new  dresses  for  the  occasion,  and  were 
brilliant  as  a  bed  of  tulips  in  crimson 
and  purple  and  pink. 

Adilah  Hanoum  received  her  guests 
standing  between  her  cousins,  in  the 
yellow  salon,  in  a  long  trained  Turkish 
326 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

di-ess  of  purple  velvet  embroidered  in 
gold.  On  her  head  she  wore  a  diamond 
tiara  and  a  cap  of  point  lace,  and  dia- 
monds glittered  about  her  like  stars  of 
a  summer  night. 

The  ladies  were  all  dressed  in  their 
best,  and  each  one  brought  with  her 
her  favourite  slave,  also  in  gala  attire; 
and  the  eiffect  of  colour  and  the  glitter 
of  gold  and  jewels  was  such  as  can  be 
seen  nowhere  but  in  the  Orient.  Slaves 
ran  about  with  baskets  of  cigarettes  and 
the  ladies  were  soon  all  seated  in  the 
various  rooms  smoking  and  chatting 
gaily,  awaiting  the  appearance  of  the 
bride. 

At  six  o'clock  the  two  bridesmaids 
arose  from  their  places,  and  went  in 
search  of  the  bride.  Everyone  waited 
in  breathless  excitement,  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  procession  appeared. 
Two  eunuchs  (lent  for  the  occasion  by 
friends,  since  Ezzid  Pacha  kept  none 
himself),  in  frock  coats  and  fez,  walked 
first,  tossing  money  in  the  air,  which 
was  eagerly  picked  up  by  the  slaves. 
327 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

Then  came  the  two  bridesmaids,  one 
in  white  and  one  in  blue,  leading  one  by 
each  hand  the  bride,  Mademoiselle, 
Hosnah,  and  Ikbal  bringing  up  the  rear. 

Mihri  was  dressed  in  modem  Turkish 
style,  or  what  we  should  call  a  princess 
dress,  of  white  gauze  spangled  with 
gold  over  pink  satin,  cut  V-shaped  in 
the  neck  and  clasped  around  her  waist 
with  a  flexible  girdle  of  gold.  On  her 
head  she  wore  the  bridal  turban  of  white 
tulle,  which  made  a  background  for  her 
diamond  tiara,  and  from  it  hung  the  two 
invariable  skeins  of  gold  wire  over  her 
shoulders,  down  almost  to  the  ground. 
The  diamond  necklace,  bracelets,  and 
earrings,  and  a  large  medallion  of 
diamonds  and  pearls,  which  her  father 
had  sent  her  from  Rome,  completed  her 
attire.  She  made  a  beautiful  and  re- 
splendent Turkish  bride. 

The  procession  moved  across  the 
central  hall,  all  the  women  following 
in  excited  confusion,  and  entered  the 
salon  of  the  bridal  apartments,  where, 
facing  the  entrance  door,  had  been 
328 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

erected  the  bridal  throne.  This,  as  us- 
ual, consisted  of  a  raised  dais  covered 
with  crimson  satin,  and  a  crimson  canopy 
with  long  sweeping  curtains  supported 
by  two  columns,  from  which  hung  two 
long  thick  skeins  of  gold  wire,  like  those 
worn  by  the  bride. 

Under  the  canopy  two  heavy  gilt 
chairs  stood  side  by  side,  and  in  one  of 
these  Mihri  was  placed,  while  Ikbal, 
gorgeous  in  sky-blue  brocaded  in  sil- 
ver and  a  turban  of  spangled  tulle,  sat 
at  her  feet,  and  fanned  her  with  a  fan 
of  peacock  feathers.  All  the  women 
walked  around  her  and  admired  her  to 
their  hearts'  content,  and  Mihri  sat  and 
looked  straight  in  front  of  her,  appa- 
rently calm  and  unmoved.  She  was 
unhappy,  and  thought,  with  the  despair 
of  youth,  which  knows  no  hope  (and  is  so 
soon  forgotten) ,  to  be  unhappy  always ; 
but  she  was  an  Oriental  and  outwardly, 
at  least,  she  had  accepted  her  destiny. 

For  half  an  hour  she  sat  there,  and 
then  returned  to  her  own  apartments, 
while  the  dinner  was  served.  The 
329 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

bridesmaids  rejoined  the  other  ladies, 
and  Hosnah  and  Ikbal  alone  remained 
with  the  bride,  serving  her  with  the 
many  courses  of  the  banquet,  and  vainly 
coaxing  her  to  eat,  for  she  could  not. 

After  dinner  various  amusements  were 
provided  for  the  guests,  such  as  singing 
and  dancing  girls,  and  an  East  Indian 
woman  who  delighted  them  with  jug- 
gling tricks. 

Then  came  the  second  entrde  of  the 
bride,  who  was  led  in  by  her  brides- 
maids and  seated  on  the  throne  to  be 
admired  as  before,  the  principal  differ- 
ence being  that  she  had  changed  her 
dress  to  one  of  white  satin  embroidered 
in  gold,  though  her  turban,  her  gold 
skeins,  and  her  jewels  were  still  the 
same.  Another  half-hoiir  she  spent  in 
presence  of  the  company,  and  then  once 
more  retired. 

The  time  wore  on,  and  at  length  the 
eunuchs,  who  ran  backwards  and  for- 
wards between  the  harem  and  the 
Salamlik,  announced  that  the  bride- 
groom had  started  for  the  mosque,  and 
330 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

all  the  women  crowded  to  the  front 
windows  to  watch  through  the  lattices 
for  his  return.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
their  patience  was  rewarded  by  the 
sight  of  a  long  line  of  gUmmering  hghts 
coming  down  the  lane  beyond  the  garden 
walls.  Twelve  servants  walking  first, 
easily  counted  as  they  were  all  in  white, 
and  then  a  double  line  of  red  fezes,  black 
coats  and  uniforms,  the  young  friends 
of  Miirad  Bey,  and  in  their  midst  the 
bridegroom  himself,  quite  tmdistingiiish- 
able  from  the  rest.  ■ 

The  procession  turned  the  comer, 
and  was  lost  to  sight,  and  now  most  of 
the  ladies  began  to  put  on  their  yash- 
maks and  ferejehs  and  to  take  their 
leave.  Only  the  relatives  remained,  and 
they  assembled  solemnly  in  the  salon 
of  Adilah  Hanoum,  while  the  house 
slaves  all  in  their  yashmaks  waited  in 
the  central  halL  The  hour  of  midnight 
had  struck,  and  with  it  the  great  moment 
had  come. 

The  bride  appeared  for  the  third  time, 
still  in  her  white  dress,  but  this  time 
331 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

covered  from  head  to  foot  with  a  gold- 
striped  veil.  She  was  led  to  the  crim- 
son salon,  and  stood  there  like  a  statue 
with  Hosnah  and  Ikbal  veiled  behind 
her. 

A  prayer  rug  was  spread  beside  her. 
Adilah  Hanoum  and  Mademoiselle  took 
their  places  opposite,  and  everyone  else 
withdrew.  There  was  a  pause  of  a 
moment  or  two,  but  to  Mihri  it  seemed 
like  an  hour. 

Then  footsteps  were  heard  in  the  hall, 
the  portiere  was  lifted,  and  the  two 
eunuchs,  each  with  a  lighted  candle  in  a 
bell  glass,  entered  the  room,  followed  by 
the  bridegroom,  Mihri 's  veil  was  thick 
and  through  it  she  distinguished  only 
the  red  fez  and  the  gold  that  glittered 
on  his  uniform.  Murad  Bey  advanced, 
knelt  on  the  rug,  turning  towards  Mecca, 
said  his  prayer,  touched  the  ground  with 
his  forehead  three  times,  and  then  arose. 

For  a  moment  he  seemed  to  hesitate, 

and  then,  encouraged  by  a  sign  from 

Adilah  Hanoum,  took  the  bride's  veil 

by  the  hem,  and  lifted  it  slowly.    Hoshan 

332 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

and  Ikbal  pulled  it  from  behind,  and 
suddenly  it  came  off  entirely,  and  Mihri 
stood  revealed  in  all  her  splendour. 

Murad  Bey  clasped  his  hands  with  a 
cry  of  delight,  and  Mihri  looked  at  him 
and  saw  her  lover  of  the  Sweet  Waters 
of  Asia.  The  crimson  salon  reeled  and 
swam  around  her.  Rainbows  danced 
before  her  eyes,  and  music  of  unearthly 
sweetness  sounded  in  her  ears. 

For  Murad  there  was  no  surprise.  He 
had  known  since  their  third  meeting, 
when  he  had  followed  her  home,  that 
the  young  woman  with  whom  he  had 
fallen  in  love  at  first  sight  was  his  own 
betrothed;  and,  with  that  manly  su- 
periority which  takes  everything  for 
granted,  he  had  supposed  that  Mihri 
knew  him  also.  But  now  he  read  in  her 
eyes  and  in  her  smile,  and  in  the  sunset 
flush  that  mantled  in  her  cheeks,  the 
glory  and  the  joy  of  her  surprise. 

They  loved  each  other,  and  their  love 

did  not  and  had  never  needed  words. 

They  only  needed,  as  now,  to  look  at 

each  other.     The  first  act  of  an  Oriental 

333 


The  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia 

husband  must  be  to  give  his  bride  a 
present;  Murad,  remembering  this  a 
moment  later,  drew  from  his  pocket, 
a  medallion  of  rubies  and  diamonds, 
in  the  centre  of  which  was  his  miniature 
painted  on  ivory,  and  gave  it  to  Mihri, 
who  pinned  it  on  over  her  heart.  Then, 
taking  her  by  the  hand,  he  led  her  up 
on  the  dais,  where  they  took  their  places 
in  the  two  gilt  chairs. 

Adilah  and  the  other  women  hastened 
to  leave  the  room,  and  the  portieres 
were  dropped  behind  them.  They  were 
alone  and  now  indeed  they  spoke,  words 
of  love  and  sealed  with  kisses,  but  words 
and  kisses  which  we  have  no  right  to  see 
or  hear.  The  relatives  and  friends  are 
all  gone,  and  we  must  follow.  The 
entertainment  is  over,  and  the  candles 
are  being  put  out. 

"  Oh  sweet  illusions  of  the  brain! 

Oh  sudden  thrills  of  fire  and  frost  I 
The  world  is  bright  while  ye  remain! 
And  dark  and  dead  when  ye  are  lost." 


334 


Appendix 


335 


THE  FLOWER  OF  DESTINY 

The  loves  of  Ferhad  and  Sira  have 
been  a  favourite  theme  of  the  Oriental 
poets,  who  have  told  their  story  in  many 
different  ways.  This  story  is  entirely 
my  own  and  rests  on  the  single  his- 
torical fact  that  Sira,  a  Christian  slave 
and  the  favourite  of  Chosroes  whom  she 
ruled  by  her  beauty  and  wit,  had  a 
lover  named  Ferhad,  a  yoimg  man  of 
wonderful  beauty. 

The  history  of  Chosroes  is  sufficiently 
dramatic  to  need  no  embellishment. 
The  Mohammedan  writers  ascribe  all 
his  misfortimes  to  his  impious  act  in 
tearing  the  letter  of  Mohammed. 

After  his  defeat  by  Heraclius,  he  was 
driven  not  indeed  into  exile  again,  but 
from  place  to  place  in  his  own  kingdom, 
and  was  finally  murdered  in  the  year 
628  by  Siroes  his  son  and  the  son  of 
"  337 


Appendix 

Sira,  this  end  making  the  vengeance  of 
Heaven  complete. 

To  the  shade  of  Ferhad,  I  must  offer 
my  sincere  apologies.  He  was  neither 
a  traitor  to  his  country  nor  to  his  love, 
but  remained  true  to  Sira  to  the  end; 
but  had  I  told  the  story  thus  there 
would  be  no  moral. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  FATIMITES 

This  is  not  an  historical  tale.  The 
chronological  setting  and  the  sketch 
of  Saladdin  are  correct;  but  Ali  Amr, 
Rikaiya,  Tchagane,  and  the  other  act- 
ors are  entirely  my  own  creation. 

THE  NEW  MOON  OF  ISLAM 

Lew  Wallace  makes  this  Hassan  the 
victim  of  Murza  who  hurls  him  from 
the  walls.  A  fiction  which  needs  no  de- 
nial, as  Iskander  Bey  (George  Castriot), 
the  original  of  Murza,  had  already  in  the 
lifetime  of  Murad  deserted  the  standard 
of  the  Turks,  and  we  can  more  readily 
forgive    the    wilful   murder   of    Hassan 

33^ 


Appendix 

than  the  idealisation  of  Iskander,  who 
was  a  traitor. 

This  tale  is  founded  on  an  historical 
fact,  or  what  passes  for  such.  Moham- 
med the  Second,  being  accused  by  his 
soldiers  of  having  become  the  slave  of 
love,  brought  out  his  favourite  and 
killed  her  in  their  presence  to  prove 
them  wrong. 


339 


,jJ,j|  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  .:BR,AR,  fa 


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